He frowned. “I will make it possible,” he cried. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. ” Ennison obeyed Anna’s gesture, and was silent. 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. ‘Parbleu, but I find that this is excessively clever, this passage.
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