" "She cannot stay here," the manager declared. He continued alternately to be tossed in the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. He was in the house with his mother. 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 think so? Well, if that’s so, I know where she gets her impudence, Prudence Sindlesham. He is delightful, is he not?’ ‘That will do, Lucilla.
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