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The road was new to me, as roads always are, going back.
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In the life of each of us, I said to myself, there is a place remote and islanded, and given to endless regret or secret happiness.
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The thing that teases the mind over and over for years, and at last gets itself put down rightly on paper -- whether little or great, it belongs to literature.
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'Tain't worthwhile to wear a day all out before it comes.
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Tact is after all a kind of mind reading.
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