When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. Manning? I suppose there’s a sort of place like a ticket-office. "Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. ‘What now?’ ‘Now,’ she answered flatly, ‘you will please to tell me at once why you have come here. 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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