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“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. 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. As Wood obeyed, his foot slipped; and, casting his eyes upon the floor, he perceived it splashed in several places with blood. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He crossed back to Roding and said low-voiced. “Sydney is quite right, Miss Pellissier,” he said.

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