Before proceeding to Wych Street, he called at the Lodge to see how matters were going on, and found Mrs. Aren't we funny? And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human beings, to have someone like this come along! It is almost as if she were acting a rôle, and she isn't. He raised her to a sitting position. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. Now, he had achieved them, and felt assured of success. 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.
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