\"How's it going, Lucy?\" She turned. She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited. It never is. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned. She moaned as she touched him. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. 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. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast.
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