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“I wrote it for you. 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. So, not exactly hopefully but earnestly, she returned to the feet of God. She was chaffing him about being taken for Meysey Hill, and suggested that he should be presented to me as the millionaire. Her heartbeat quickened. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how.
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