"If this document is correct," continued Wood, "and I am persuaded it is so,— you are as unfortunate as wicked. 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. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. Ramage demurred. Here, then, but for the time and place, might be another Sidney Carton. And don't neglect my instructions this time. ‘Then we will beg. “I tell you it was a lie!” he shouted wildly. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism.
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