"Where are you going?" she asked. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Mrs. 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.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIxNi44Ny4xNTYgLSAxMC0wNi0yMDI0IDE5OjQ2OjM0IC0gMTA5ODc0NjUzMA==
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