She became angry with herself. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance. 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. "The Dutchman was right, after all. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister.
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