" And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. Kneebone," she added, with a glance at that gentleman, which was meant to speak daggers, "will do as he pleases. I am so amazed to see you here. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. ’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. 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. Jack fell on his knees beside her.
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