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Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. Do you not remember that this capitaine has heard us talking? You may believe that Gérard will not let the soldiers leave from the gate. 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. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. In all this world there was no sacred ground that said to her: Return! She was of all human beings the most lonely. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. Wanton! Had I been one, even God would have forgiven me, understanding.
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