Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. I am the richest man in England. 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. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. But we have got to talk upon indifferent themes until we have done with this blond young gentleman from Bavaria. They litter up the room. The service began.
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