‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. . “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. 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. ’ ‘Distract me? She nigh on gave me an apoplexy.
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