As you admitted to me—one has to square one’s self with the world. 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. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark.
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