“I have nothing to say to you. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands. 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. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. Advancing towards Wood, Jonathan fixed his keen gray eyes upon him, and demanded, in a stern tone whether the persons who had taken refuge in the adjoining house, were bailiffs.
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