“That’s what you’re going to wear. ’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. 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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