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. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. There is no poison that would affect her. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. ” She whispered. “The rest,” she said, holding tightly to his hands, “is the most important of all. It’s just because all that side of your life hasn’t fairly begun.
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