Her little white hand stole across the table. . ” She looked around for the voice around the Orchestra room, fumbling around with her books. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. "We won't have any trouble understanding each other; same language. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared. I always fall on my feet, you know. 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. “Do you want some of mine?” “Yes.
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