Say I’m out, away, anything!” “I am sorry, sir,” the man answered, “but she had sent away her hansom before I answered the bell. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. 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.
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