He bumped his elbow against the door at the end and, hurrying down the staircase, walked quickly through the two corridors and out into the air. His evenings were his own; and he pored over a ragged translation of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. We boast our light; but if we look not wisely on the sun itself, it smites us into darkness. There was to be no gray prose, it appeared, and no long grind; so how could work not be charming that presented itself as daily beauty? It was all the romance of the nursery and the poetry of the schoolroom.
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