‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. 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. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family.
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