But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Ramage admitted the force of that. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. This was followed by heavy footsteps, and in another moment the dining-room door was flung open. Lucy was silent. "No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir," he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge. 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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