She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try—the music hall stage here. You make me angry, and I lie. Mind, I am anticipating events. Hardened as he may be, that would touch him. Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or diversion from that.
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