Fortunately, the window was not far from the ground; so opening it gently, he dropped into a backyard, and from thence got into the street. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. 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. “Do all foster kids have the instinct?” Michelle asked naively. Ann Veronica said she didn’t care. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. He drove her to the Beck house, pulling up behind Cathy's red Nissan.
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