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He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. The major’s hand stilled. Have you ever voted, Mr. 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. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head.
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