F. Mr. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. “I’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. Here they remained till midnight when, calling for their reckoning and their steeds, they left the house. 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. "Then I presume you've not been arrested?" "I have not," answered Wood firmly. She became angry with herself.
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