It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. 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. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father. The key's in the lock, on the inner side. Annabel entered. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope.
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