He rested his brow on his hand and conveyed magnificent tragedy by his pose. Michelle had charitably taken to sitting with Lucy during Lunch Period, where she assumed a station at the outer edges of the Cafeteria, the crowd diffusing in concentric orbits, the middle tables reserved for only the most prestigious castes. Let’s face it, she hates Missy’s guts. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. 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. " "Well, we shall see," replied Jack.
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