Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. . 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 waited. Wild!" demanded Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. “Now replace the stone, my child.
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