They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. 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. . And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. —D'ye hear?" Still the widow remained silent. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance.
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