I will not talk to you about Miss Pellissier or her affairs. They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. 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. She fled. Perhaps it was loneliness. I wanted it badly. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. I don’t want to know. Understanding the appeal, the man snatched his master's sword from his grasp, and passed it through Darrell's body.
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