These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. 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. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. “Oh, but life is difficult!” she groaned. “I am not sure,” Anna answered. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. It tore her apart. " "For shame, Mr.
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