The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. 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. But he was so feeble, that it seemed scarcely possible he could offer any effectual resistance in case of an attack. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. He stood back, smiling with an air of proprietorship, and looking about him at the business-like equipment of the room. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. I do not wish that the soldiers there will see it shine. “If I didn’t love you better than myself,” said Capes, “I wouldn’t fence like this with you.
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