CHAPTER XXXI. ” She said. I think too much about myself. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. " "That kind of talk makes you sound like a white man. 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. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know. . Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough.
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