“Miserable bounder,” he murmured. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. I heard from David about you only this morning. ‘Precisely. 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. \" She opened the front door with her keys, stepping inside. Hill’s first night back amongst us, too.
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