Their conversation became stilted. 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. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. Shotbolt," cried the turnkey, "I've good news for you. The pearls were really yours?" "They were left to me by my mother. “Why should it matter?” he said. The major hailed him with a show of relief.
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