There Are Strings In The Human Heart

Around And Around The House The Leaves Fall Thick, But Never Fast, For They Come Circling Down With A Dead Lightness That Is Sombre And Slow.

The Night Was Dark, And A Cold Wind Blew, Driving The Clouds, Furiously And Fast, Before It. There Was One Black, Gloomy Mass That Seemed To Follow Him: Not Hurrying In The Wild Chase With The Others, But Lingering Sullenly Behind, And Gliding Darkly And Stealthily On. He Often Looked Back At This, And, More Than Once, Stopped To Let It Pass Over; But, Somehow, When He Went Forward Again, It Was Still Behind Him, Coming Mournfully And Slowly Up, Like A Shadowy Funeral Train.

Dombey Sat In The Corner Of The Darkened Room In The Great Arm-chair By The Bedside, And Son Lay Tucked Up Warm In A Little Basket Bedstead, Carefully Disposed On A Low Settee Immediately In Front Of The Fire And Close To It, As If His Constitution Were Analogous To That Of A Muffin, And It Was Essential To Toast Him Brown While He Was Very New.

Have I Yet To Learn That The Hardest And Best-borne Trials Are Those Which Are Never Chronicled In Any Earthly Record, And Are Suffered Every Day!

Let No Man Turn Aside, Ever So Slightly, From The Broad Path Of Honour, On The Plausible Pretence That He Is Justified By The Goodness Of His End. All Good Ends Can Be Worked Out By Good Means.