‘Point it at me. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. He was the Napoleon of knavery, and established an uncontrolled empire over all the practitioners of crime. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. 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 wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. I'm ready to bear it all.
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