Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. 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. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. " "I wonder where the deuce I'll be able to get some writing paper? I'm crazy to get to work again. "Enough's as good as a feast. "My horses, Charcam," he said, as a servant appeared. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. But Mr Jarvis said as how Miss Mary not having no brothers and sisters like, it were good to have friends. And so Misther Wudd lives near the Black Lion, eh?" "He does," replied Thames. “There’s no end of things I’d like to talk over with you.
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