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. “I supposed that he took off his hat to you. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that.
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