“Now I should like to know,” she said, looking at him with a quiet smile, “what you are doing here? It is not a particularly inspiring neighbourhood for walking about by yourself. Well, I am Nigel Ennison’s sister!” “Oh!” Anna said. 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. Out of an old family album: here was the very comparison that had eluded him. Since her husband has laid me under such a weight of obligation, I couldn't, in honour, continue— hem!" and he took another explanatory pinch. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my collection. “You!” said Ann Veronica. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers.
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