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. "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. In a sense I don’t care. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. ” She was on the very verge of a vegetarian meal before she recovered her head again.
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