“I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. "Are you not that man's mistress?" demanded Mrs. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. 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. Paris copies London.
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