They were seated at the remoter end of the glass-covered Promenade, and a band was playing.
Something in the music, for once, had saddened and dispirited Frank.
"Alone ?" she had retorted.

"Who is ever alone ?" "Well, our wires are down, for a little while, anyway!" laughed Durkin, as he sipped the hot salt water from the china cup.

It reminded him, he had said, of all his past sins in epitome.

Frank sighed wearily, and did not speak for a minute or two.
"But, after all," she said at last, in a meditative calmness of voice, "there are always some sort of ghostly wires connecting us with one another, holding us in touch with what we have been and done, with our past, and with our ancestors, with all our forsaken sins and misdoings.
No, Jim, I don't believe we are _ever_ alone.

There are always sounds and hints, little broken messages and whispers, creeping in to us along those hidden circuits.