"And, now,—to Newgate. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. It makes me desire life beyond measure. 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. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously.
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