An astonished Jack Kimble was revealed in the aperture. " "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. Why?" "I was just wondering. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. 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. " "Make it positive," was the brisk reply. "Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—hem!" "Say no more on the subject, Sir," observed the stranger, gravely; "but let us turn to a more agreeable one—her daughter.
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