She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. 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. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain.
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