—Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. I love you all the more for the streak of sheer devil in you. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Nothing is of any concern of ours except the discovery of the man’s identity. He might solve the riddle. 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. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTYuNjguNDkgLSAwOC0wNi0yMDI0IDIwOjIyOjA1IC0gNTgxMjQ3MTkz
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