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" "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. ” “In Paris, I think,” Ennison answered. 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. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly.
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