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But how did they compose what people called a life?

He could not free himself, could not detach himself.

If we do not know ourselves, how can we know other people?

Why? she asked herself, looking at the lovely face, empty of meaning, or character, like a page on which nothing has been written but youth.

Love ought to stop on both sides, don’t you think, simultaneously?� […] “But it won’t—that’s the devil,