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. He looked half at her and half at the sky. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve.
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