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PinkMonkey.com-Nicholas Nickelby by Charles Dickens




974

which the friendly darkness had shrouded from his sight and mind
together, so, the wayfarer in the toilsome path of human life sees,
with each returning sun, some new obstacle to surmount, some
new height to be attained. Distances stretch out before him which,
last night, were scarcely taken into account, and the light which
gilds all nature with its cheerful beams, seems but to shine upon
the weary obstacles that yet lie strewn between him and the grave.

So thought Nicholas, when, with the impatience natural to a
situation like his, he softly left the house, and, feeling as though to
remain in bed were to lose most precious time, and to be up and
stirring were in some way to promote the end he had in view,
wandered into London; perfectly well knowing that for hours to
come he could not obtain speech with Madeline, and could do
nothing but wish the intervening time away.

And, even now, as he paced the streets, and listlessly looked
round on the gradually increasing bustle and preparation for the
day, everything appeared to yield him some new occasion for
despondency. Last night, the sacrifice of a young, affectionate, and
beautiful creature, to such a wretch, and in such a cause, had
seemed a thing too monstrous to succeed; and the warmer he
grew, the more confident he felt that some interposition must save
her from his clutches. But now, when he thought how regularly
things went on, from day to day, in the same unvarying round;
how youth and beauty died, and ugly griping age lived tottering
on; how crafty avarice grew rich, and manly honest hearts were
poor and sad; how few they were who tenanted the stately houses,
and how many of those who lay in noisome pens, or rose each day
and laid them down each night, and lived and died, father and son,
mother and child, race upon race, and generation upon


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