Kneebone is coming, my dear," ventured Mr. . He hugged her when he saw her in the hallway. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. 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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