(“Good job. Let us part in peace. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. She was shocked. 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. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. "Tomorrow I shall have a visitor.
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