1 through 1. “Well,” she said. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. 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. " "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. David Courtlaw. ” Lucy answered, disturbed at how rehearsed the apology sounded.
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