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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 could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. ToC Mrs. "You will find it true," replied Blueskin.
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