If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. “Oh, you know,” she said. Disillusion stands in one doorway of our house and Mockery in the other. htm or 16215-h. She recoiled. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection.
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