” “Upon my word,” he declared, “you are right. You have been to me like a mother, not only a wetnurse. We were to have breakfast there and return in the evening. “Yes. 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. I’m too young 117 for this to sound right. .
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