It is positively hateful to think of it. I think she might be up to something. To make sure work of it, I'll superintend the job myself. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. I never could.
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