This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. The executioner shook his head. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference—a great difference.
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