The Diamond Necklace

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Houghton Mifflin Company, 1913 - 168 pagine
 

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Pagina 85 - Oh, think not of these ; think of HIM whom thou worshippest, the Crucified, — who also treading the wine-press alone, fronted sorrow still deeper ; and triumphed over it, and made it holy ; and built of it a " Sanctuary of Sorrow," for thee and all the wretched ! Thy path of thorns is nigh endud.
Pagina 3 - The Age of Romance has not ceased; it never ceases; it does not, if we will think of it, so much as very sensibly decline. " The passions are repressed by social forms; great passions no longer show themselves?
Pagina 15 - The thing that is, what can be so wonderful; what, especially to us that are, can have such significance ? Study Reality, he is ever and anon saying to himself; search out deeper and deeper its quite endless mystery : see it, know it ; then, whether thou wouldst learn from' it, and again teach ; or weep over it, or laugh over it, or love it, or despise it, or in any way relate thyself to it, thou hast the firmest enduring basis : that hieroglyphic page is one thou canst read on forever, find new...
Pagina 84 - Oh, is there a man's heart that thinks, without pity, of those long months and years of slow-wasting ignominy; — of thy Birth, soft-cradled in Imperial Schonbrunn, the winds of heaven not to visit thy face too roughly, thy foot to light on softness, thy eye on splendour ; and then of thy Death, or hundred Deaths, to which the Guillotine and Fouquier Tinville's judgment-bar was but the merciful end? Look there, O man born of woman ! The bloom of that fair face is wasted, the hair is gray with care;...
Pagina 85 - Sorrow," for thee and all the wretched ! Thy path of thorns is nigh ended. One long last look at the Tuileries, where thy step was once so light, — where thy children shall not dwell. The head is on the block ; the axe rushes — Dumb lies the World ; that wild-yelling World, and all its madness, is behind thee.
Pagina 85 - The bloom of that fair face is wasted, the hair is grey with care ; the brightness of those eyes is quenched, their lids hang drooping, the face is stony pale, as of one living in death. Mean weeds, which her own hand has mended, attire the Queen of the world. The death-hurdle, where thou sittest pale motionless, which only curses environ, has to stop : a people, drunk with vengeance, will drink it again in full draught, looking at thee there. Far as the eye reaches, a multitudinous sea of maniac...

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