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I thought about you day and night all through college, and for awhile after graduation, too." "I wrote you a couple of love letters that I never sent." "Gosh, I wish you'd said something." "I wish you'd said something, too." * As we pass through earthly life so quickly and only once, how sad that our fear of rejection is so often stronger than our love. Seeing is Believing
These vile letters and the magistrate's bias, seemed to me to add the final touch of the grotesque to the horrible vileness of the trial. It was all worthy of the seventh circle of Dante, but Dante had never imagined such a father and such judges! Next morning Oscar Wilde was again put in the dock. The evidence of the Queensberry trial was read and therewith the case was closed for the Crown.
In this dilemma his natural colleague would have been his Khaleefa, his deputy, Ali bin Jillool, but because this man had been the deputy of his predecessor also, he could not trust him. He had two other immediate subordinates, his Commander of Artillery and his Commander of Infantry, but neither of them could spell the letters of his name.
It is perhaps one of the pleasantest experiences of an author's life to learn from letters and in other ways that he is forming a circle of friends, none the less friendly because personally unknown. Their loyalty is both a safeguard and an inspiration.
Seeking for the cause of this difference, I imagine I can find it in the fact that, in the world of letters, learning and knowledge are one, and books are the source of both; whereas in science, as in life, learning and knowledge are distinct, and the study of things, and not of books, is the source of the latter.
On the previous evening March had come up by rail some fifteen miles beyond the brisk inland city just mentioned and stopped at a certain "Mount" no matter what known to him only through casual allusions in one or two letters of a friend.
After Henriette's return to Dresden there was an interchange of letters, wherein love fought a losing battle with doubt and suspicion. This half-year of amatory perturbation was of course unfavorable to literary labor. No further numbers of the Thalia appeared, and 'The Misanthrope', a new play of excellent promise, made no progress.
No doubt there were many individuals in the confederacy for whom it was reserved to render honorable service in the national cause. The names of Louis Nassau, Mamix of St. Aldegonde, Bernard de Merode, were to be written in golden letters in their country's rolls; but at this moment they were impatient, inconsiderate, out of the control of Orange.
Sheridan went to Dublin, to perform at the theatre of that city, leaving his young and lively family at Bath, with nothing but their hearts and imaginations to direct them. The following letters, which passed between him and his son Richard during his absence, though possessing little other interest than that of having been written at such a period, will not, perhaps, be unwelcome to the reader:
"One man," he said, "might know the truth." "Would he reply to a letter?" Giovanni shook his head. "He does not write letters. If I could see him I would ask him, but the air of Goslar is not wholesome for me." He looked at Alan curiously. "Do you think of going there?" "Why not?" Alan returned.
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