You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. Prudence twinkled at them, and reached out to pat Melusine’s hand. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are. 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. ‘You know what I am about,’ exclaimed Melusine impatiently.
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