“The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. 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. She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely.
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