horribly; she sprang up in her chair and reached out her
The journey homeward to habitual self
A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf,
Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-briar,
Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire,
Into the bosom of a hated thing.
What misery most drowningly doth sing
In lone Endymion's ear, now he has raught
The goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the thought,
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- the moving ray. Inhaling sibilantly, Max leaped after her.
- and Waking Dreams, that Maggie was strangely old for her
- to relieve her from her grate-brushing and scouring: “Let
- but would never forsake or ignore them — would not let
- Max gaining upon her, now, at every stride. There was a
- as mental restlessness, which made her often wander about
- a unity which shall bind the smallest things with the greatest?
- were somewhat grim and drunken ogres, they had a certain
- He paused for a moment, hoping to be able to lower the
- than they expected, or by leaving your money in a capricious
- the onward tendency of human things have risen above the
- reared and have flourished; but it had the very slightest
- For three weeks Hanson had remained. During this time he
- in revering whatever was customary and respectable; it
- with an apparatus of hooks, so that they will get a hold
- the onward tendency of human things have risen above the
- reward that they would win from him if they carried his
- recorded his vindictiveness on the fly-leaf of his Bible.
- i’ the right words — you know how — and then write,
- hand, nobody had ever heard of a Dodson who had ruined
- heavy rain set in, which was hardly sufficient to drive
- surely the most prosaic form of human life; proud respectability
- place where I was born and my father was born. Put that
- it was of equal necessity to have the proper pall-bearers
- his fingers, right and left, and presently found slimy
- that its highest striving is after the ascertainment of
- as I don’t forgive Wakem for all that; and for all I’ll
- pain is often a stimulus, and produces an excitement which
- For three weeks Hanson had remained. During this time he
- thrill me with a sense of poetry; they belong to the grand
- “It isn’t wicked, I tell you,” said her father, fiercely.
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- in an iron sluice gate. The Eurasian had passed it, but
- rules; and society owes some worthy qualities in many of
- sameness, and trial is a dreary routine — it is then
- feeling that human life — very much of it — is a narrow,
- away from our tents the large circle of lookers on. An
- veins, but it was carried in richer blood, having elements
- credit to the family, but still not to alienate from them
- life on the banks of the Floss, which even sorrow hardly
- of the Eurasian. She turned and faced him, threw up both
- “It isn’t wicked, I tell you,” said her father, fiercely.
- “Now write — write as you’ll remember what Wakem’s
- destitute of any corresponding provision, and had slipped
- wooden steps. He drew himself closely to these, and directed
- speculations, all the pleasant little cares about her treasures
- reared and have flourished; but it had the very slightest
- omission of anything that was becoming, or that belonged
- our tents. They were very civil, and offered us a house;
- to other women remained an insoluble question by which
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