The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. “You know—,” said Mr. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. E. 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. He could imagine it even if he could not feel it. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. She felt her skills make a belated return. A shaft of searing heat plunged downward.
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