" He bent his head to his knees. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. 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. Too late she realised that Emile was not trying to escape. ” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing. ‘Exactement.
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