He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. ” “Then perhaps,” she answered, with a new coldness in her tone, “perhaps I really do not care. 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. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman.
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