But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. “Won’t you tell me why you have come to England?” she said. 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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