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. ‘Parbleu, you waste time. I like you very much, I haven’t known you enough to love you, no matter how worthy you are of love. The chain, which had been partially cut through, snapped near the staple.
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