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. “My husband knows all. “I thought every one had heard,” said Miss Klegg. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. Something he saw there made him feel for a moment ashamed. She tried not to notice how much attention Martin Chen had been paying her, but he had been bold enough to speak to her the other day.
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