‘Don’t be silly. “No thanks, Cathy. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. But I suppose as I’ll have to wait until you can hear me to tell you again. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. She had been working upon a ribbon of microtome sections of the developing salamander, and he came to see what she had made of them. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. 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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