"What for?" demanded Wood. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. “I love you, Anna, and I want you for my wife. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. 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. ” “What case?” “A divorce—or something—I don’t know.
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