So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. What was his problem, she thought to herself. To an unthinking mind the episode would be ordinary, trivial; but to the doctor, who had had plenty of time to think during his sojourn in China, it was basic of the child's unhappiness. “Absolutely,” the doctor answered, “and the sooner the better. . 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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