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. It's kind of comforting to have you there. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. Miss Mary to the life.
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