It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. I guess we could go for a ride. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. She sings twice a week at the ‘Ambassador’s’ and the ‘Casino Mavise’——” Sir John held up his hand. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. 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. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. She hurried with Jack as fast as she could to the open door to the passage.
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