Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Her heart failed her and her resolution became water. ‘I’ll make it, miss. Don’t be frightened, dear. ‘It is that he needed me for his lie, no?’ Melusine said, striving to control the quiver in her voice. She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times—to the girl in the next cell to her own. But supposing he is? Supposing he made but one misstep? Your island would be a haven of security. I'll forgive him if he does. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man.
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