" "Enschede. Now then. “And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. It was dry, as if she had powdered it. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. 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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