"Where is he, then?" demanded the other, hastily. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. The stranger with a bow returned to his table. The place was crowded, and the people about her were almost equally made up of very goodlooking and enthusiastic young people and a great variety of Goopes-like types. They were things I had meant very much to talk to you about, so that I went home vexed and disappointed, and only relieved myself a little by writing a few verses. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. 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.
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