” “I promise,” Annabel declared. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. One woman hit the ground running, Sebastian ran after her. ” “You—you did what?” Anna exclaimed. 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. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions.
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