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. ‘Very well,’ he said, lowering his own weapon. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper.
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