Perhaps that was why Sheila began to observe Lucy, because both of them were poignantly aware of Lucy’s otherness. 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. Anna admitted the fact. “Who can tell?” she said. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. “It’s okay.
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