“I just came to you and put myself in your hands. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. However, confession of a fault makes half amends for it. To her horror she realized that she had nearly forgotten how to kiss after a years-long dry spell, and she could detect drool on her own chin and John’s cheek. Nobody could possibly find him now. Do you know, Ann Veronica, it is all a lie about your birth certificate; a forgery—and fooling at that. I should say that having a doubt was enough to condemn it. But of what use to wear it when there was no one of importance to see and admire? ‘For shame, Melusine,’ protested Lucy, as the butler bowed himself out of the room. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. 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. He had heard everything. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation.
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