“You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. ” Lucy spoke up, “We used to call that ‘playing the coquette’. ‘Alors, I see it. Her heart thudded. ” “It is,” Annabel answered shortly. 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. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head.
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