It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. “FAIL!” she said. " "It's no use going to bed," answered Rachel. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. She could not help but swoon a little. You can do it, if you will. She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. 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. “It was perhaps my fault.
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