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 cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Her eyes travelled about the room as if in appeal to the very chairs. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. ” She hesitated and looked for a moment straight into his eyes.
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