He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. I have heard of you from my husband. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. 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. A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY.
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