CHAPTER XXI. ‘I thought, you see, that we might as well enter by the same way our intruder had done. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. 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. You certainly had to hand it to these Chinks.
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