Wood, "it may be poisoned. 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. ’ The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands. Just dreamed—and ran away even from my dreams. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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