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. You know you don’t mean it. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. ” Ann Veronica sat with her chin on her hand, red-lit and saying little, and Miss Miniver discoursed. "Take him to the bilbowes. His face was downcast.
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