With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. 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. Wood hadn't struck me. " "Six weeks!" exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone. Lord, I am sixty.
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