He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. 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. Some of their specimens—wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. Now keep still. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. I have it about me.
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