"In the first place, she had no knowledge of her birth; and, consequently, no false pride to get rid of. A neat tale, giving little away. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. 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 could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. " "Six," he corrected.
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