"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. 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. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it.
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