“Mid-thirties. "Hush!—come hither, and I'll tell you. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. " And he led the way to an inner room, in the middle of which stood a table, covered with a large white cloth. 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. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions. ‘What do we do now?’ Gerald took a pace towards the girl. Show him no quarter, Poll.
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