That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. 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. “Are you in the Service?” She asked him. “I want to make love for the first time tonight. "We're forgetting," he said. White calls them. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. ” He looked at her very gravely. ” “Are you in a hurry,” she asked carelessly.
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