"But if my career were truly exhibited, it must be as one long struggle against destiny in the shape of—" "Jonathan Wild," interposed Gay. 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. To be no longer with Martha was strange. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. She pulled away from him, placing her fingers on his lips for a moment.
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