There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. 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. ‘It is of no use to try to stop me. So they fenced with smiles. ” “What case?” “A divorce—or something—I don’t know.
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