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"Heaven," repeats he, with a sigh. "I have forgotten to think of heaven." Then some one puts on her again the coat she had taken off such a short time since, and some one else puts on her sealskin cap and twists her black lace round her white throat, and then she turns to go on her sad mission. All their joy is turned to mourning, their laughter to tears. "Of love generally?—no," with a disdainful glance,—"merely of your love of comfort.".
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Conrad
The grass is still brown, the trees barren, no ambitious floweret thrusts its head above the bosom of its mother earth,—except, indeed, those "floures white and rede, such as men callen daisies," that always seem to beam upon the world, no matter how the wind blows. Cold Maker said, "Here is your new robe," and Broken Bow took from the bears their thick, warm skins. "But why?" persists he. "What a dismal view you take of my trip! Perhaps, in spite of your forebodings, I shall enjoy myself down to the ground, and weep copiously on leaving Irish soil.".
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