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Rowland's plans were quickly formed, and as quickly executed. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. For that such a man does not mind about the dowry, he must be in love en désespoir. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. 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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