She left them and went back to Sebastian, never uttering a word about her visit. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. Her sister’s words were true. . Your life is like a funeral March. . She’s already spoken for. 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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