Winter came at the manor. 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. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. 92 She did not notice the police car sitting near the Beck house until they were pulling into the driveway. “I am fairly well known here. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said.
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