It fits your style. "Mrs. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. ‘So it was. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. 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. But his grief was of short duration.
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