Let it be me. Luke and Marianne are convinced of separation at birth. I'm putting them on hold. The real Marianne takes this misreading and runs with it, ushering in her directorial debut. Thus begins the reign of terror.
Life is reduced to footnotes on the weather.
He realizes the impossibility of interpreting beyond her words the simplest feelings shown in Marianne's face, sneering or smiling. Mild precipitation casts doubt on her heart. The muse could always rally the masses, but being at a loss for words is such a thankless job. But for all the hubris, not to mention creepy insularity, I envy them their carelessness. The longest line between two points is the least detected.