’ ‘How can it be in dispute?’ frowned Mrs Sindlesham. 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. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. “Here,” he said, “is this Blau See, and here we rest until to-morrow. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears.
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