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. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage.
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