“You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. “It’s settled. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate.
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