Trenchard glanced at the document. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. 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 remembered Taber's hat. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. She had not at first the power for concealment. You won't refuse me, I'm sure; so no more need be said about the matter. The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet.
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