A. 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. "At length, I have my wish," continued Mrs. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. John did not see her until the last period. She began to miss him when he was gone during the day and cherish the quiet times he spent only with her. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. "Sometimes a cup of lies is a cheering thing," replied the trader. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe.
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