She never calls herself ‘Alcide. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. “Well?” “I don’t care a rap for all these things. 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. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. . The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot.
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