He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. 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. I don’t see how they can be. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. " "Impossible!" cried Jonathan. It was not so uncommon back in the Hebrides for men to take several wives and additional lovers. " "I have already hazarded my life in this attempt to save you," returned Jonathan boldly, and with apparent frankness; "this ought to be sufficient answer to your doubts. “I go to private school right now.
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