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. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. "Not as I loved mine. But when it came to broaching them, it proved to be much more difficult than she had supposed. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. She cocked her head. I studied violin with a teacher when I was younger,” she said.
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