Rollo began to cavort. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. 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. " "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. “Thank you. ’ ‘Can you prove it?’ demanded Hilary. Mary is very good, but she is too nervous to be the slightest protection. And rather unscrupulous.
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