But one of these days everything will click back into place. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. ‘I do not need for you to tell me this. “Wonderful man!” said Ann Veronica, reassured, and stroking his cheek with her finger. It’s too valiant, Miss Stanley, too valiant altogether!” Ann Veronica meditated. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. ” They were eating quails when they returned to the topic of love. I deserve pretty much what I’ve got. Wild here presently, and I wouldn't for the world—Zounds!" he exclaimed, as the figure of the thief-taker appeared at the wicket, "here he is. It is the vapouring school girl.
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