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. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. " "'Tis he, by Heaven!" cried Jonathan; "this is lucky. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise.
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