It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. When I carried you up here like a bride, that is the way I wanted us to be, Mary Lucia. "Is she married?" he asked, after a brief pause. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. 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. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to his father,—when I think of that father's shameful ending, and recollect how free from guilt he once was,—at such times, Mr. \"But nothing is going to happen.
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