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. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. “Nobody understands them, of course, but we all look as though we did. ” 209 Clotilde was no fool. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol.
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