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. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. Hugging him in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was strangely soothing to her. Well, I was all for dragging in Bow Street there and then, and getting the pair of those fraudsters thrown in gaol. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers.
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