“He says you are frigid, Madame. "Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. “He dissembles,” he said. It's a sorry world," he went on. Cahill gave me a hall pass. 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.
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