“I’m just in time to say good-bye before I go, father. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. 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. “I am.
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