And, to show you that I have no intention of flying, I will myself close and lock the door. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. To fight inertia on the one hand and to study this queer girl on the other. 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 seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing.
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