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“We all die,” said this woman whose prudence Scripture praised in the Second Book of Kings, “and we are constantly going to the grave, like waters that are lost without return.” Indeed, we all resemble running waters. However superbly distinguished men may be, they all have the same origin; and this origin is small. Their years develop successively like waves: they never cease to flow, until finally, after having made a little more noise, and crossed a little more of the country, each one than the other, they will all merge together in an abyss where one no longer recognizes princes, kings, or all those other superb qualities that distinguish men; just as these much-vaunted streams remain without name and without glory, mingled in Tocan with the most unknown rivers.
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