Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. " Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. "And now," he continued, sternly, "was it your master who has just ridden by?" "No," answered Quilt, sullenly. Turning off again on the left, down Seacoal Lane, they arrived at the mouth of a dark, narrow alley, into which they plunged; and, at the farther extremity found a small yard, overlooked by the blank walls of a large gloomy habitation. 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. ” He contradicted himself by plunging into an exposition of motifs. “I confess it.
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