“Well,” she said. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. ‘What are you after this time, miss?’ asked Jack. 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. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. . Since she was only seventeen when she had them, she didn’t deal with it very well. On that first occasion, the delay in locating the entrance to the secret passage meant that she had to wait until morning to make her search. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom.
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