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. And he had good reason before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. It was cramped even at the end of the passage. .
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