One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Annabel turned on the electric light and made her way into the sitting-room. 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. ’ ‘Je m’en moque.
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