I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. 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 listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands. Rain changed to hail, then 154 sleet, then snow. The pistol fell to the floor. Get on with it, then. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her.
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