Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. She flushed with desire and happiness, her husband had returned to her and all would be aright. It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. 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. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him.
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