" Du Val was hang'd, and the next who came On the selfsame stone inscribed his name: "Aha!" quoth the dubsman, with devilish glee, "Tom Waters your doom is the triple tree! With your chisel so fine, tra la!" "Tut, tut, tut," he cried, "what a fool I am to be sure! I ought to have cut John, not Jack. Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. 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. And yet, Spurlock was afraid of the doctor; so was Ruth.
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