“I have not quarrelled with her. 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. Boldly he turned the knob of a certain door and entered. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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