"My father!—his lips!"—repeated Mortimer, bewildered.
He opened the paper.
"My father! where is he?"
"Mortimer!" cried Walters, pushing aside the screen.
And they stood face to face.
XVI.
Our revels now are ended: these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind!
Shakespeare.