To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. 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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