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. She chose to hold her nose. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. He turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses. She opened and read it at once.
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