Mrs Sindlesham’s wrinkled cheek had paled, and her eyes were fixed upon Gerald in a look that wrung his heart. 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. "Your health, Kneebone. His guardian angel warned Spurlock to speak carefully. “What has she told you?” “Everything. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes.
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