As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. "My child! my child!" exclaimed Mrs. 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. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. He's on the ragged edge.
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