Father— dead. “Is that plain?” she asked. My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. 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. It cuts. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. And go quickly that I may finish to search.
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