Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. 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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