She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. Her head ached with a hollow pain. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. She will die if she knows I have a gun. 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. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped.
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