What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Perhaps it was loneliness. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. Miss Mary to the life, I said, and so she is. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house.
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