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. And Rollo, who had been waiting for some encouraging sound, presented himself at the doorway. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway.
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