“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. The lady murmured briefly to her husband, and then tucked her hand into Alderley’s arm. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. 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.
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