Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. 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. In his desire to be emphatic and to avenge himself for his over-night distresses, he speedily became brutal, more brutal than she had ever known him before. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu. It is of no use. I’m sorry.
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