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. Earles thinks I am a little mad, and between ourselves I am not sure about it myself. "And, oh! forgive me, though I can never forgive myself, for the misery I have caused you. “You permitted me then to call you my friend.
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