Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. Of course, one doesn’t like to talk about things until there are things to talk about. 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. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated.
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