I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. . “Of course!” he said. " "Of what am I accused?" asked Thames, who though a good deal alarmed at first, had now regained his courage. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. 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. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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