” She admonished. “I am going to ignore it. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. There it is. ’ Then she frowned. "Let me look at the paper. "Stow it, Nab!" exclaimed Quilt, angrily; "the kinchen's awake. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. 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 pointed with shaking fingers to a great bunch of dark red carnations, thrust carelessly into a deep china bowl, to which the card was still attached. .
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ5LjIzLjE2NyAtIDAzLTA2LTIwMjQgMDQ6MjM6MTEgLSAxNTk1MTAxNTI3
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