“What can one say?” she exclaimed. Earles regarded it approvingly. Men do services for the love of women, and the woman who takes must pay. There was no need to be afraid for me. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him. Perhaps for the first time he realized that Anna was by no means an ordinary person. Lucy knocked again. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. 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. It fell with a clatter to the floor.
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