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. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. After the sights he would have to twiddle his thumbs until the joints cracked. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. Above she found the two Chinamen squatted at the side of the door.
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