“Damn”. ’ She turned and swept away from him, pacing the length of the room to the window Gerald had unshuttered. F. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. The rogue took everything we had. He had hurt her. No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons. 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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