While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. ‘He don’t mean you no harm. Prudence attacked her chicken wing. ‘Don’t put me at the necessity of marrying the abominable little wretch. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said. 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.
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