They had turned into the street, on the opposite side of which were the flats where Anna lived. "Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. You go to your room and ring for your maid. "There's a young woman. 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. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Well, after a time there came a fever in my blood. ” With a little shrug of the shoulders Anna followed him. There is no further hope. And the age gets higher.
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