CHAPTER XII. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. ” She looked at him with fluttering eyelids—sweetly grateful. ’ ‘I think he only wants to help you, miss,’ offered Jack. 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. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. And let us go on with our evening. Was she interested in that young ass who was risking his bones over there in the city? They had come up on the same boat. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. ’ Melusine knew it to be true.
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