I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. 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. ” “You have not told me yet,” Annabel said, “how it is that you have dared to personate me. When she spoke, her lips twitched. ” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road.
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