She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. 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 favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home. “Drugs, mainly. She had trembled on the verge of such a resolution before, but this time quite definitely she made it. "Do you call this frantic glee happiness?" "It's all the happiness I have known for years," returned the widow, becoming suddenly calm, "and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive.
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