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. Take your pick, Mrs. He seemed to be. I have seen you with Anna, and I have not known whether to be glad or sorry. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged. —'They can't, I tell you,' says I, in a bit of a passion; 'it's unconstitutional.
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