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. McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. "I shall go back and finish my supper," said Mrs. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe.
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