To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. Deny me, if you please. 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 future? He dared not speculate upon that.
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