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. Not at all. "Well, what sort of journey have you had, Quilt?" asked the man as he hastened to assist Sir Rowland to dismount. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. The devil is on top, not below.
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