“Miserable bounder,” he murmured. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. 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. To my loving parents and brothers, and my Aunts, Gail and Barb. ” Ann Veronica agreed, and tried to make the manner of her assent cover a possible knowledge of a probable poem. Quite right. . . Not these twenty year.
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