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” “Tolstoy is so good about this,” said Miss Miniver, regardless of her friend’s attitude. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. She put her head out of the window. 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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