. Her mother…. I would speak with you. I can’t stand it. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. He savored the last solo, the coda. She sighed with relief. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. 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.
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