This was followed by heavy footsteps, and in another moment the dining-room door was flung open. 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—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions. “It was poison—why not?” she answered.
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