‘There are no Remenhams left. 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. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. She awoke and found herself home amid a pile of three bodies, one of which she recognized as a former denizen of the household. It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows.
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