Though," said the thieftaker, with a complacent smile, "all the world seems to tremble at it. 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. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. I thought that he was dead. Hearing the distant shouts, these fellows rushed down to the entrance of the court, and arrived there just as Jack passed it. . ‘Here we go again. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair.
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