Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain. What!— you know so little of that child? She ran away from you. I burned it. " The phrase was new, but Ruth nodded understandingly. 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. My politics in that matter wouldn’t be to give women votes.
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