And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. 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. She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. I tell you this child would have been strangled.
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