But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. 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. We’d soon cool that temper of yours. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. But you must come this way now.
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