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. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. He heard me; but he never came in to ask what was the matter. Like a hare closely pressed, Jack attempted to double, but the device only brought him nearer his foes, who were crossing the field in every direction, and rending the air with their shouts. I keep it for my own drinking," he added in a lower tone.
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