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. Its parents have perished. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. McClintock's was a plantation of ten thousand palms, yielding him annually about half a million nuts. "Yes, now," rejoined the infuriated dame; "perhaps, I may never have another opportunity. "At length, I have my wish," continued Mrs. ’ ‘What?’ squeaked Kimble.
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