“What is its name?” I asked grandfather to reassure myself.
“The name of what?” he asked, not comprehending.
“The place where we are.”
The question surprised him, and provoked a little laugh that I did not enjoy.
“It has no name.”
“Who owns it?”
“Nobody.”
Nobody! That was very strange. Just as the house must always have belonged to us, I had supposed that the whole earth was divided into properties.
“To us, if you like,” grandfather went on.
And his laugh, his terrible little laugh, began to undermine my notions about life, my beliefs. It produced upon me the effect of the touch of the finger that I used to give when I erected great buildings with my blocks. The edifice grew higher, higher,—I barely touched with my finger one of the columns at the base, and down it all came.