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. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. Like a trollop in heat. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. " Jonathan's eyes glistened as he told over the notes. She had fallen asleep. “Anyway, enough about that. His eyes caught at hers with passionate inquiries.
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