The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much. The room behind was another small antechamber, presumably linking the back rooms. 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. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. "But you are a good man, and you'll understand. When I drink blood, I. And all to find that picture of Mary Remenham. ” “I’m not surprised at it.
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