” Annabel rose slowly to her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow lagging footsteps. "We're forgetting," he said. 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. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. At the Palazzo, the cook’s cook had a team of servants under him.
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