He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. ’ ‘I do. He opened the drawer of the writing table. Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard. Morals only begin when that is settled. 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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