"We shall meet again ere long, my son," cried Mrs. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. 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. Then the distant relationship to Miss Stanley gave them a slight but pleasant sense of proprietorship in the girl.
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