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... the ten breaths he needed to leave and step past the antechamber into the glass-strewn ballroom, where he let himself slump against the wall. Forehead and palms on the stone, the coolness steadying, and still his breath caught. Panic was a blind thing, an animal whose frenzy would get you killed, but his head cared not: it spun, and behind the shakes spreading down his limbs lurked worse. The sight of her fading, of leaving, of aband-

A hand on his neck, soft as a feather.

"Tris ...

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