Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest. 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. Things you would laugh at. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned. " "Good enough for me. ’ ‘Ah yes. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey XVII. I can see that you were somebody, in another day. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
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