Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. 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. Jests are not for seasons like this. ” “And mine,” murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips. But when they were on their way out he whispered in Anna’s ear.
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