"What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. She's too pretty and unusual. Gerald smiled and crooked his elbow. 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 Bitchster strikes again.
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