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He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. She finished the olive and looked up. She hated living like that. It had certainly caused some havoc in the uninhabited mansion, chewing through Holland covers to get at the furniture beneath, and knocking down a fire guard and a couple of wooden stands. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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