The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. Bullding repeated, rather struck with the phrase. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. 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.
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