Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. 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. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. Thames, look the door.
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