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. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. "Right," said the Master, "I didn't think of her. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now. ” “Oh, it wasn’t that. Oblige me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland.
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