Montague Hill. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. The aunt laughed. “We’re going to be sensible. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. Wood?" "With pleasure," replied the woollen-draper. Perhaps I deceived you about it. ‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major. 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. A severe pang shot through Jack's heart, and he would have given worlds if he possessed them to have seen his friend once more.
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