She had worried in fear that the excitement would be too much for him. 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. " "Well, well—wait awhile," returned Quilt; "his lordship won't forget you. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. ” Her mind went off to Capes. " "Of course—of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than that.
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