Don’t imagine that. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place. 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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