She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. Three times she escaped. What's all this about, anyhow? You. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. The winters were terrible in cold climates, and she often had been driven to dig herself large underground pits where she waited it out like a mole in the cold months. I am out of your life forever, never having been in it.
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