. . 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. "Here are a pair of gloves and a nosegay for you. How on earth does it concern you?” Annabel laughed hardly. “I don’t see why not,” he answered. Lost in thought, Lucy barely heard Mrs. . Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. .
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