“No!” Her thoughts had turned in a new direction. 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 talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. “My name is certainly Pellissier,” she said, “but I am very sorry—I do not recognize you in the least.
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