‘Let her go. You may go back, Marthe. 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. You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target.
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