I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. There were no mourners. Unless they remind him now and then not to. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality.
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