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. "I've counted ten coffins so far. Here's a nosegay for you, my love," she continued, opening her basket, and presenting a fragrant bunch of flowers to Winifred, "if your mother will allow me to give it you. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. .
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