" "I have. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. 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. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Of course there were goats.
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