It was a purse. “Why do you need to go for a walk, Michelle?” Diane asked darkly. Nigel, you have not forgotten!” “No,” he said, with a little bitter smile. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. 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. “What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully.
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