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. ” “We’ll have, thank God! ten myriad days to tell each other things. I think not, Annabel. "You've got him?" demanded Ireton. I'll put a brace of dogs on your track, who'll soon hunt you down. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’ ‘One cannot help but do so.
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