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“You should probably wash all of that stuff off of yourself. ‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered. His father and mother are gone now. 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 used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. Smiling, the Chinaman gave the correct pronunciation. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform.
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