“David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. Wood, I forget nothing. He embraced her like her father once had. “Oh I most definitely think so. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. “For better or worse. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. 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. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. ’ The lady sighed and spread her hands.
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