"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. "Be so good as to let Caliban out, Mr. “May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention. . You have your work before you, and I——” He kissed her on the lips. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. F. 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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