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. “Which one?” “The Miss Pellissier in whose rooms you were, and who sings at the ‘Unusual,’” Courtlaw answered. The months that followed September spiraled downward. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. But, as this produced no effect, and did not even elicit a groan, the prisoner was carried back to Newgate.
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