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. ” “You do not deny that you are my wife,” he asked hoarsely. Howard Taber. It is the only way. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. "Put it under my pillow," he said. His brows drew a little nearer together. "He left an envelope with some money in it. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension.
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