The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep. Had he found the secret door? Running to the centre, she tried to judge where the knocking came from. 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. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. " "What shall I do?" cried Mrs.
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