Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. But Jack was too well versed in the geography of the place to attempt either of them. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. She could not see clearly. 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. ‘The sisters here will not save you. They had cried a little, both. Vee’s all right.
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