\" He panted, wiping sweat off of his brow with a towel. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. She shook them off of one foot. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. 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. ” “Thank you,” Anna answered. I'm not interested in him.
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