"And now, to your own concerns. 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. There would be no mercy in this man. “We played at love-making in Paris. "If I spoke to him, my interest might be misinterpreted. He felt no pain from this cowardly kick. “Well, no,” she answered. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. He’s—He lives in a world of possibilities outside your imagination. . . ” “Your ideas of fairness—” he remarked, and discontinued that sentence. He might have supposed the fellow would be eager to be rid of the tale, for that he might have longer to enjoy the amenities of the Triumphal Chariot where the meeting had been appointed. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap.
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