On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. “No, you didn’t. His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision. 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.
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