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. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. You get the idea. She kissed him on the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve never found a woman who did not drive me into a frenzy of boredom. She was shifting, moving back. Wood fancied he recognised. But as the mystery which surrounded Ruth fell away that which enveloped her father thickened. dear. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight.
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