Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. ‘Do not move, messieurs, or I shall be compelled to blow off your head. 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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