At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. 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. She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. That was what she was trying to make him understand.
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