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On and on they hurry down and down, to a cold stirless solidity, where wind blows not, water flows not, where the seas are not merely tideless and beat no shores, but frozen cleave with frozen roots to their gulfy basin. All things are on the steep-sloping path to final evanishment, uncreation, non-existence.
Her husband knew her fault that was enough: he knew also his own immeasurably worse than hers, but when they folded each other to the heart, they left their faults outside as God does, when He casts our sins behind His back, in utter uncreation. I will say nothing definite as to the condition of mind at which Faber had arrived when last Wingfold and he had a talk together.
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