Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. 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. ‘Very useful, of course. We all get deceived sometimes. He threw her on the bed. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. It’s gone. Smith. Wood's charms equalled your description.
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