‘I told you I could handle her. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun. Your boyfriend. Stanley admired and detested him in almost equal measure. Gerald doubted there would be many eager suitors, even assuming the comtesse was keen to marry off her daughter to a foreign protestant. Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. . It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. 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.
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