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Pain relents sometimes, but it gives way to indifference, which is a dreamless sleep, or to pleasure, which is a bastard pain. Then man, whipped and rebellious, ran ahead of the fatality of things after a nebulous and dodging figure made of remnants, one remnant of the impalpable, another of the improbable, another of the invisible, all sewn together with a precarious stitch by the needle of imagination. And that figure—nothing less than the chimera of happiness — either runs away from him perpe
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If it hadn't been for our love affair, most likely Dona Placida would have ended up like so many other human creatures, from which it can be deduced that vice many times is manure for virtue. And that doesn't prevent virtue from being a fragrant and healthy bloom. My conscience agreed and I went to open the door for Virgilia.
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