Ennison was deeply interested. “Not really. How old are you?” She asked. 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. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. ‘Jacques,’ she said, turning to the lad, and holding the habit out, ‘take this for me and leave it in the passage where we have left the lantern.
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