We hide it bravely, but so it is. We remember it. 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. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. " "Thank God for that!" cried Wood, heartily. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less. ‘As I said, a mistake.
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