"Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. " "My God!" cried Trenchard, stunned by the intelligence, "I have killed her. But perhaps I had better get a room in an hotel to-night and look round. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. Just one thing more. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. 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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