A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. 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 yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world.
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