Then she would be dead, and that was no use. ‘How could you? No wonder mademoiselle is angry with you. 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. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room.
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