It doesn’t matter. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber. Was he really awake? The arrival and departure of this strange father lacked the essential human touch to make it real. And afterward her mother and Alice kissed long and clung to each other. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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