Lucy stared like an automaton at Michelle’s unconscious 262 body, revolted at her own actions to the point of shock. His age was not far from fifty. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. 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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