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. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. . Fifty sent home. ” She assented, smiling. She was now permitted freely to study the face. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. The life of a girl presented itself to her as something happy and heedless and unthinking, yet really guided and controlled by others, and going on amidst unsuspected screens and concealments. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. And the less “anything” happened the better. But it’s very beastly.
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