“David Courtlaw!” she repeated. There are way-stations—even terminals. Now do you see his motive?" "I see nothing but your danger," replied his mother, tenderly. He felt her relaxation and let go of her wrists. This Joan would hold them for a little. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. 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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