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He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. 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 had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick.
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