It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. 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. E. " "I hope you never may, my love," humbly acquiesced the carpenter. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. Your brother has everything—I have not shown myself capable even of earning my own living except in a way which could not possibly bring any credit upon anybody.
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