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 looked away. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. Life is so good. They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path. It is impossible. What beasts men are! I cannot typewrite, my three stories are still wandering round, two milliners have refused me as a lay figure because business was so bad. I could be presented as Meysey Hill.
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