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 unhooked it from the front clasp. “I ought to have done. There’s hardly a night she doesn’t sneak out of the house. But seriously, things are not so bad as you think. "I will have it now," rejoined Trenchard, "or our agreement is void. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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