He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. "Blueskin," said Ireton. 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. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence whatever, till I call. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat.
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