" "A capital caricature that," remarked Thornhill, laughing. No Cantonese was in those days permitted to cross to the Sha-mien after sunset without a license. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. Listen, Jack. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. 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. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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