“Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. 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. Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. He's going to ask you to Prom.
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