‘All right, Trodger. 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. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. “Anna! Thank God I have found you at last. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work.
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