One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. After knocking for some time at the door without effect, he tried the latch, and to his surprise found it open. The chamber, into which he stole, like all carpenters' workshops, was crowded with the implements and materials of that ancient and honourable art. I am really in earnest. He thought for a moment, and went on: “Love is something that has to be taken care of. 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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