My servant. " "What is it?" asked Thames. 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. ‘Certainly no one will find it. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. . ’ ‘You are perfectly correct,’ agreed Gerald at once.
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