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. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner. McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man. She opened the door to him herself. Not even for Ruth could he do such a beastly thing. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. I do not command the services of a person who will not tell me why he offers them. There was another phrase which sounded something like 'Gin in a blue-serge coat'. She worried for her father in Mantua, 28 hoping that he was still alive. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds.
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