Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. Used to play together, we did, all over Remenham House. But his hand was withheld by Thames. 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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