"I want to know what you've done with the rest of the notes—with the gold— and the papers you took away from my room!" rejoined Wild. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. 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. But there was no sign from her. Then before she could say a word to arrest him he was at her side.
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