And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. He knew me, Nigel. 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.
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