Husbands and wives, young lovers, and mothers with strollers thronged in the streets, all savoring the fine cool weather. 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. Mother and Son. She wanted to live. We want to come to the station if this happens, okay? For your own good. He squinted and a disgusted look came over him. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. “I say!” he cried. " "Nothing," echoed Wood furiously. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst.
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