His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. 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. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. “I love you, Ann Veronica.
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