"Don't ask me about it now. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. He had been thrilled at her attitude about the subject, which was simply not to turn others into vampires. I love you all the more for the streak of sheer devil in you. 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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