"Mother!" cried Jack, springing towards her. But only inside, you understand, that one cannot see it. 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. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. Being a Chinaman in blood and instinct, he despised all spinsters; they were parasites.
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