They don’t now. I'll write an opera the scene of which shall be laid altogether in Newgate, and the principal character shall be a highmaywan. 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 stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. You've caught the colour and the life.
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