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. He jumped back, wrenching the sword away. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. "I don't quite understand the application. There is no further hope.
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