All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Sebastian was gone and another doctor came to bleed her, to rid her of the black humors that were causing the plague. 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. Jonathan caught her in his arms. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. "I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked.
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