Wood, at Dollis Hill —" "Let me have one," said a carpenter, who was passing by at the moment,—"Mr. Blueskin is booked. ‘Me and the butler didn’t see eye to eye. 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. .
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