Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. 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 delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. Age is set, impervious to innovations.
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