You Have Been The Last Dream Of

He Would Make A Lovely Corpse.

Spite Is A Little Word, But It Represents As Strange A Jumble Of Feelings And Compound Of Discords, As Any Polysyllable In The Language.

I Know Nothing Of Philosophical Philanthropy. But I Know What I Have Seen, And What I Have Looked In The Face In This World Here, Where I Find Myself. And I Tell You This, My Friend, That There Are People (men And Women Both, Unfortunately) Who Have No Good In Them-none. That There Are People Whom It Is Necessary To Detest Without Compromise. That There Are People Who Must Be Dealt With As Enemies Of The Human Race. That There Are People Who Have No Human Heart, And Who Must Be Crushed Like Savage Beasts And Cleared Out Of The Way.

All Partings Foreshadow The Great Final One.

Stephen Blackpool Fall Into The Loneliest Of Lives, The Life Of Solitude Among A Familiar Crowd. The Stranger In The Land Who Looks Into Ten Thousand Faces For Some Answering Look And Never Finds It, Is In Cheering Society As Compared With Him Who Passes Ten Averted Faces Daily, That Were Once The Countenances Of Friends