" "What shall I do?" cried Mrs. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor. 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.
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