“Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. "I am content," said Jack. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. “There is something which I must say to you. 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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