. ’ ‘But why, Marthe,’ asked Melusine, as she walked into the house. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. 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 hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Both carried packages of books and magazines. He was tall, slender, and suave. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope.
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