For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Here's his health likewise. Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. This is not what I want.
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