You are right. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. Only I do not care to write about anything else. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. She is chosen to learn magic. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. 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.
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