Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. You'll be wasting his time. " "Well, think no more about it," returned Thames. 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. ” “But how?” He was, she thought, a little too insistent. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell.
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