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. She caught at the idea. ‘Still, the comtesse has them well in hand. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. ’ ‘Then you will die at the hands of the canaille. This horrible piece of deformity, who acted as drawer and cellarman, and was a constant butt to the small wits of the jail, was nicknamed the Black Dog of Newgate. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. I’m so glad you’re not angry. It’s wrong in the eyes of most people. ’ Looking round, she found the little coterie of soldiers crowded into the passage behind them.
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