These realizations rushed into Ann Veronica’s mind and hardened her heart against him. 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 are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. I must take you to the Suffrage people, and the Tolstoyans, and the Fabians.
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