“I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. dear. You're alone, too, child. 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. "And equally easy to prove it," replied Jack, giving him the paper he had abstracted from Wild. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. ” “Is it necessary,” he said, “for me to tell you——” “Stop, please,” she said firmly.
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