“And then?” said Ann Veronica. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. “Mr. I had not the time to formulate the decoctions that would have saved him— they take weeks to create and must come from your own blood! You were perilously close to death, and had I not watched you constantly for the week you were unconscious they would have buried you alive! Gianfrancesco was ready to give up after two days, 172 ready to throw you in the plague cart! Of course he had no use for you after bearing witness to the loss of your womanly organs. That he should pay forty pounds to help this girl who preferred another man was no less in his eyes than a fraud and mockery that made her denial a maddening and outrageous disgrace to him. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. 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.
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