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. She could not speak. ‘But it is not on the horse at all, Jacques. "Is Thames returned from London?" "Not yet," replied the other; "but I expect him every minute. " Ruth slightly brushed the withered cheek. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband? His luck was in. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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