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. The van started with a jerk and rumbled on its way. Towards night, however, he ventured out, and walked on towards London. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. He was not able to recognize, as the doctor did, that she was only a natural woman. .
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