“YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. Spurling, (for she it was,) either by her attractions of purse or person, had succeeded in moving the stony heart of Mr. It was the grand nursery of vice. 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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