I went to the theatre that night. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. These amazing infants! Suddenly he came upon the true solution: that the boy hadn't meant to steal whatever it was he had stolen. If there’s any one here whom you have not met I will make you acquainted with them after dinner. Not alone with her, that’s sure. 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. Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the road.
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