You would steal from me then the only man I ever cared a snap of the fingers about. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. 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. To-morrow they will know the truth. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. I hid because there was no other way of seeing you. A pretty piece.
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