"Perhaps. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. Under another name,—not my own hateful one,—I will strive to distinguish myself in some foreign service, and win myself a reputation, or perish honourably. The likeness was ridiculous. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. A phase of mental activity that men called courage: to summon at will this energy which barred the ingress of the long cold fingers of fear, which cleared the throat of stuffiness and kept the glance level and ever forward. Fear nothing. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty.
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