Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. 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. " "Did I hear you aright?" asked Trenchard, with startling eagerness. Presently McClintock came in.
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