’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. 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. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. ” He dared, his nostrils flaring. ‘Brung the lantern, I did, and opened the door again in case you was ready. 1. It was hard to associate her with the stories which he and all Paris had heard of “Alcide.
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