Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. It 163 invariably leads to trouble. In truth, she had been quite glad to lose the argument about remaining while the bullet was dug out of Jack’s side. Still, one has to be reasonable. ‘Dear me. That's how I finally got wind of 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.
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