Better check on Remenham House, I suppose. 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. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. "Medicine cannot save mo now. "Ah!" cried Wild, laying down his pen and looking up with a smile of satisfaction. While I have been pestering you, have you heard it? At least, you heard the first act.
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