"Jack Sheppard's face is well worth preserving. She bolted awake in the large bed which was awash in a sea of silks, furs, and red curtains. She had a few acquaintances, English gentlemen, but she lived with her sister—was a lady. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. 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. That Capes should love her seemed beyond the compass of her imagination.
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