She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. Sheppard. I spied a small picture of them in your house, though. Saw the villain through the keyhole. 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. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. ‘Come, cry a truce. Darkness closed in on them as the officers stepped inside the musty interior. Anna sprang lightly away across the street.
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