EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. Only a book detective could dope this out. Imitating the example of Mr. 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. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour.
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