"'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. Suffer me to precede you. “Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. " "Sir Rowland is dead," replied Jonathan, gloomily. She turned off the light and approached the window. She opened her mouth and inhaled water. 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. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault.
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