It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. All my personal effects to be left in charge of the nearest American Consulate. 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. There was no mistaking his intentions this time.
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