Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. A widow for the fourth time, Mrs. Wood," she continued, with a sudden change of tone, and convulsively clutching the carpenter's arm, "promise it me. 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. That was the only sound he heard. ’ ‘Precisely. He was staring at her, openly gaping. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. I took him out of the hands of death.
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