" "All right. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. “Or I wouldn’t have said anything about it. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. My wife—killed me. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. \" He took his milk and cookies to bed. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. ‘Please to sit, monsieur. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. I don’t want a family in the suburbs and Christmases at the Florida house and summers at the Hamptons.
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