She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. But was it Faith? That is what she was this day going to find out. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. I’ve got a streak of male. 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 has given herself up to social work. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. They are the only happy women in the Orient. That is why I ask you. I have now settled my affairs, and made every preparation for my departure to France, where I shall spend the remainder of my days.
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