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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. ’ ‘Unfair!’ echoed his junior. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. She opened the door with a neon colored key. ‘Let it fall!’ ‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had guessed aright. “Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved.
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