Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. It is the same with animals. Wood. 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. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. . ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed.
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