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. Gifts came from Florence: rubies and emeralds, a beautiful statue of Santa Maria for their garden grotto, a gorgeous silk tapestry of a hunting scene that alone made the price of her dowry look paltry. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. "That's for Mrs. I made it a point to bring beachcombers to the house to fill her with horror of mankind. She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort.
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