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. " "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. He embraced her like her father once had. ” The talk became more and more inconclusive and exhausting. It’s for you to say if I may sit on it.
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