" "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. 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. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. ’ ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. Turning now, and running down the terrace.
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