An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. Her fingers rested upon his. And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair. 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. This is the one movement that brings women of different classes together for a common purpose.
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