The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. 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. This girl whom he had met by chance and befriended had done both. “I believe so. ‘The truth is, Everett,’ she said brightly, limping up to the general and tucking a hand in his arm, ‘that the girl is you all over again.
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