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. She picked up the hand cannon. She would never love him as she loved Capes, of course, but there are grades and qualities of love. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. I’m glad I did.
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