She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. The thought of beauty became an obsession. Then the incredible happened. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. I’ve made no one happy. To—to find myself. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action.
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