She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. 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. She remained stonily in the middle of the hallway until the spinsters' door shut them from view … for ever.
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