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. She broke this promise when she told me that my mother was this Mary, and not Suzanne Valade at all. By and by he gathered enough courage to lean toward her. He feared to antagonize that distinguished person. Her heartbeat quickened.
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