She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. You see to what it has brought you. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. 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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