’ ‘But I can’t leave you, miss. Now do you see?’ Melusine frowned. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. Lucy saw it happen as if in slow motion. . 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. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. ‘Cover her, men. Of course there are, millions of them. . And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort.
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