’ ‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. 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. . “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. “You have killed me. " Taking the keys, he led the way, followed by Jonathan, who chuckled internally at the shock that awaited the poor fellow.
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