“Oh, Lucy. 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. He parried without apparent effort. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up.
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