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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. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. “I’m only arguing against your position of what a woman should be, and trying to get it clear in my own mind. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. "I have never been out of this horrible dungeon since we last met," he said; "though how long ago that is, I scarcely know. “Don’t!” she begged.
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