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“Queer letters he writes,” she said. He looked at her, his eyes filled with excited terror and astonishment at her move. The report of his detention caused an immense sensation. “I lied, as I would have committed a murder, or done any evil deed sooner than lose you. ‘I don’t want him having an apoplexy in this house. 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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