By a sort of instinct. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. The boy was bright and inquisitive as he was subtle. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release.
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