What's this?" he added, stooping to pick up a piece of paper lying at his feet—it was Jonathan's memorandum. 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 carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. He suspected a trap. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. Meantime, the lady had overtaken them; but, terrified by the menaces of her vindictive kinsmen, she did not dare to reveal herself to her husband, of whose concealment on the roof of the very house the party were searching she was aware.
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