She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. " "It was the knowledge of this feeling on your part, my love, that made me act without your express sanction. When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. 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. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. The ragged edge.
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