Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality. Ireton; for may I be hanged myself if I don't believe he'll be as good as his word. I mean—I mean to do what I can. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. 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 took his hand in hers.
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