“By God!” said Ann Veronica for the first time in her life. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. I have been around them for long enough. 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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