” Chapter XII THE POSTER OF “ALCIDE” On Saturday mornings there was deposited on the plate of each guest at breakfast time, a long folded paper with Mrs. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. Capes agreed with the utmost cordiality. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. She always dawdled, so it was easy. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. 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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