Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. Would to God I had. “What did it matter?” she cried. “This is Mr. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. “I’ve brought you up some dinner, Vee,” she said. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. But his own situation was too perilous to admit of his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. \"Drives a red Jeep?\" \"Uh-huh. 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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