She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. " "'Zounds!" cried the executioner, in astonishment. It is nothing at all for you to worry about. 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. I am not boring you, am I?” She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face. ‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now.
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