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. She told us that it was a disguise. On his return to the room, Jonathan purposely left the door of the Well Hole ajar. Pay fools with promises. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. She washed her face twice after making smudgy eyeshadow and lipstick errors. Don’t be late if you can help it. I forget.
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