But how am I to know of things?” “Some things I hope you may never know,” he said. “It was the night you left Paris. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. Pilgrim's Progress, The Life of Martin Luther and Alice in Wonderland (the only fairy-story she had been permitted to read) were the sum total of her library. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. Ennison reeled, and almost fell. 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 exhorted Ann Veronica not to become one of “those unsexed intellectuals, neither man nor woman.
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