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He wore a sprinkling of powder upon his head, as if to make himself look benevolent; but if that were his purpose, he would perhaps have done better to powder his countenance also, for there was something in its very wrinkles, and in his cold restless eye, which seemed to tell of cunning that would announce itself in spite of him.
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Heap on more wood!–the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
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Heaven above was blue, and earth beneath was green; the river glistened like a path of diamonds in the sun; the birds poured forth their songs from the shady trees; the lark soared high above the waving corn; and the deep buzz of insects filled the air.
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Henry James seems most entirely in his element, doing that is to say what everything favors his doing, when it is a question of recollection. The mellow light which swims over the past, the beauty which suffuses even the commonest little figures of that
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Her love was entire as a child’s, and though warm as summer it was fresh as spring.
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Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?
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Hereby perhaps Stubb indirectly hinted, that though man loved his fellow, yet man is a money-making animal, which propensity too often interferes with his benevolence.
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His eyes were naturally heavy; he had an air of having wallowed, fully dressed, all day on an unmade bed.
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His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object.
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His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.
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His whole future seemed suddenly to be unrolled before him; and passing down its endless emptiness he saw the dwindling figure of a man to whom nothing was ever to happen.
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Honest people don’t hide their deeds.
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Hope to the last! said Newman, clapping him on the back. Always hope; that’s dear boy. Never leave off hoping; it don’t answer. Do you mind me, Nick? it don’t answer. Don’t leave a stone unturned. It’s always something, to know you’ve done the most you could. But, don’t leave off hoping, or it’s of no use doing anything. Hope, hope, to the last!
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How dreadful! cried Lord Henry. I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect.
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How empty is theory in presence of fact!
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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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How lovely the little river is, with its dark changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I wander along the bank, and listen to its low, placid voice . . .
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How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrid, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June. . . . If it was only the other way! If it was I who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old! For this–for this–I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!
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I am afraid, replied Elinor, that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety.
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I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.’ Lord Byron
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