It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. 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. A bad sign; it signified that the heart action was in a precarious state. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white.
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