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 looked at the suitcase sadly and stashed it underneath her bed. ” “Teddy,” said Ann Veronica, “you’re a dear!” “Oh, quite!” said Teddy, convulsively, and lifted an imaginary hat and left her. She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards. ’ Her flesh crept. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Mr.
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