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. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "Not as I loved mine.
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