“Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. 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. ” Hill closed his eyes. The second is to somehow meet Lady Ferringhall. Eh? Banging against the old rollers—that'll put some life into us both.
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