This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. ” “You have been to her?” he asked. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. 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. Still, it was true about men. But it is the truth. Enschede's daughter.
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