He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. 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. Martha had the square look of solid English citizenry, which was not deceiving. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. I wasn’t.
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