Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. 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. Hanging about! And they start thinking and asking questions, and begin to be neither one thing nor the other. Sir John followed me to London and married me. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. " "What shall I do?" cried Mrs. There was no one else in the doorway.
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