He was aware of Hilary, in company with Lucilla and the comtesse’s daughter some few yards away, listening in suddenly. She whispered, “Another car is coming,” as lights approached their car. 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.
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