She reloaded. She had called the police on them anonymously. ’ ‘But you don’t look anything like her,’ burst out Mrs Ibstock. Lord, but it was a nun! Just as he had suspected. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. 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. He ran back to his car, glancing only once at the man in the car.
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