“H’m!” he said, regarding the wreckage with a calmer visage. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. If Gerald knew, what should stop Gosse from finding out? Perhaps he was even now at the lawyer. 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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