‘Come,’ she called. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. She became as The Tigress, a free thing. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. 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. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. ‘No, no, Jacques, you have done very right. "Where to, master?" asked Ben, touching his woollen cap.
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