But once I started, Forever Fifteen seemed to fly out of me like a bat out of Hell, virtually writing itself. 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. "But I'll yet disappoint you. If you do not find your aunt, my people will take you under wing until you can stand on your own. ” Suppose she were to add, “I am going away!” “I’m glad to hear you say it,” said Mr. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright.
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