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That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. ” “Yes. Never mind.
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