‘I can take care of myself, bête. 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. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal. “This is wonderful! I’ve been feeling that you had vanished from my world.
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