Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Mr. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. 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. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. The women’s meeting was much more charged with emotional force than the Socialists’. “I didn’t know you were half-Gypsy either. ’ ‘Fancy my old pa thinking you was a French spy. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper.
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