“I was sick of the make-believe. And I have made such arrangements that at my decease tardy justice will be done my injured nephew. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely. She found an old drunk wandering the streets. At sunset the swarming abruptly ceased; even the sampans appeared to draw closer together, with the quiet of water-fowl. There was so much to see, so much to do, that he became what he had once been normally, a lovable boy. “It has all been a mistake, hasn’t it?” “No more talking,” the doctor interposed. 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. "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg.
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