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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. He was an imaginative young man. All right. I was not even sure whether it was loaded. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. ” She played with her hair. ” She said to him. “Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. These and her general preparations had perhaps a certain disproportion.
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