“You will go and see her,” he begged. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. 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. “I wonder—I wonder if we shall ever get like that. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. His hands reached under her skirt. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact.
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