Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. 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. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me.
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