Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. “I’m going to talk of indifferent themes,” said Ramage, a little fussily, “until these interruptions of the service are over. Wood uttered something like an imprecation. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. He was an odd one, especially for a young man. 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 was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. “I believe that you are quite safe.
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