’ ‘Ah, the matter begins to come clear,’ Gerald 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. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. ’ Emile reached out both hands and grasped her shoulders. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear.
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