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. \"Is there something desperately wrong with your house?\" \"There is nothing wrong with our house. For aught I know, they may be in the neighbourhood at this moment. And I think I must pursue my acquaintance with the fulsome Madame Valade. It was his turn to express astonishment. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. Because of the thought of love and companionship? No.
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