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. "Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album. Clarice was from Lombardy, fair-haired and light skinned. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. ’ ‘What? But—’ ‘Precisely, Hilary.
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