" He stared at the agitated curtain; and slowly his chin sank until it touched his chest. “It was perhaps my fault. “So that’s the way it is. 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. Melusine’s eyes shifted. —'They have,' says he.
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