It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. 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. “My heart, my dove, I only want to heal you. Still, they bob up occasionally.
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