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. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well. White looked mysteriously about the room as though to be sure that no one was listening. Kicked out of there for something shady. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned.
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