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. "What are you waiting for?" asked Jack, impatiently. But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it.
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