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’ ‘Remenham House,’ exclaimed Trodger, who had been watching this interchange open-mouthed. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. 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.
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