My janizaries are without. “I have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life. 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. You have to come over to my house. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. But there was only Gosse, still struggling with the picture, looking dazedly towards Melusine and the lad he had shot, then away towards the sounds of pursuit, and back again. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce.
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