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. Stanley regarded his neighbor’s clean-shaven face almost warily. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. " "I'll have no explanations whatever," replied the carpenter, disdainfully, "except before a magistrate.
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