‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. 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. This chap's recovery all depends upon the care he receives. . I will do my utmost. Then the inner door opened abruptly. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. . “I am lonely.
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