Your mind is still subtly sick. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. Walking into the bedroom, she quickly shed the miniskirt and sweater, folding them without ceremony. 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. " "How do you manage that, Mr.
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