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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. "What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. The tears flowed faster. “Which one?” “The one whose life you have been making a burden, who has been all the time shielding her sister. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. She decided to go out into the London afternoon again and get something to eat in an Aerated Bread shop or some such place, and perhaps find a cheap room for herself. "Ay, ay, I'll go, fast enough!" returned Jonathan, putting his hands into his pockets, "but not alone, Sir Rowland.
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