More than ever Sir John was glad that he had sat down. Here we are absconding, pretending to be what we are not; shady, to say the least of it. “I have given it up,” she answered. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. She felt very cool as he opened the door for her, as if she should have chic sunglasses and stiletto heels on, dark red lipstick. 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.
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