"Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. I’ve already been accepted to a couple of schools out east. ” John greeted him. ” She raked into the fire with the poker. 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. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer.
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