She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. He pushed her small hand into his jeans. She interrupted. “You will always have to run from normal people and normal life, John. ‘Precisely. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. 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.
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