She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. . 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. A shiver slid down inside her. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously.
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