By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. 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. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness. However, I'd rather have a blow from the daughter than the mother.
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