"Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Rumor in the Palazzo had it that her new doctor was a powerful archbishop from the south who conducted most of his dealings in secret. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it.
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