"Your son," answered the boy. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. 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. Quick, now.
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