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. Another thing: she dated John Diedermayer once and she dumped him, she’s been psychotic over him ever since. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. ] "So much the better. "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. S. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. The man was dangerous. ‘All so long ago and my memory ain’t what it was. Old Bedlam 291 IX.
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