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. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. “You’re exactly as I remember you!” “Forever fifteen, remember?” She stepped closer to him into the light of the television screen.
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