It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. 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 don’t care,” said Ann Veronica. "What's the matter?" he cried. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. I was looking for rooms last week.
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