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. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. He had the air of a man who has said too much. This time they would call it murder. You can do it, if you will. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. There are human limitations, and no doubt you reached yours. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers.
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