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. “There’s no end of things I’d like to talk over with you. " "Now for it," thought the woollen-draper, "I shall, at least, ascertain how the land lies. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind.
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