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By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. Jonathan had to feel his way. ” “I suppose,” Anna said, “that those are reasonable deductions. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. 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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