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. “What’s that for?” He said. There is a small yewtree west of the church. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. ‘Aye, that she was. I do, however. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said.
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