Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Emile’s fist crashed into her temple and stars exploded in her vision. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. And I want him out of uniform. But it is the truth. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. Thames did not attempt to offer him any consolation, for he was almost as much dejected.
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