“I want to have no distractions. 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. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. She shot a sudden glance at him. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face.
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