Courtlaw, is it not,” she remarked, with lifted eyebrows. That's the only fault I know of. 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. ’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. Wood's house was broken into and plundered. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time.
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