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. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. \" Lucy noticed Michelle's heavy pile of books, some of which were from the school library. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. .
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