"What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. Secretly she was gratified to be assigned to the rôle of an old traveller. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. , but its volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous locations. 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. ” “Mr.
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