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. "Take me, then," replied the widow. When Mr. Lady Palsworthy was the widow of
a knight who had won his spurs in the wholesale coal trade, she was of good
seventeenth-century attorney blood, a county family, and distantly related to
Aunt Mollie’s deceased curate. "I told you I would call to bid you farewell, Mr. He was standing
by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was
packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small
casket from him. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 01-07-2024 11:47:16