But here it is China. For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke. "I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. They mean something. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. 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. She fidgeted and looked away.
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