Gold, For The Instant, Lost Its Luster

Then, At The End Of Every Hand, Miss Bolo Would Inquire With A Dismal Countenance And Reproachful Sigh, Why Mr. Pickwick Had Not Returned That Diamond, Or Led The Club, Or Roughed The Spade, Or Finessed The Heart, Or Led Through The Honour, Or Brought Out The Ace, Or Played Up To The King, Or Some Such Thing; And In Reply To All These Grave Charges, Mr. Pickwick Would Be Wholly Unable To Plead Any Justification Whatever, Having By This Time Forgotten All About The Game.

The Weathercocks On Spires And Housetops Were Mysterious With Hints Of Stormy Wind, And Pointed, Like So Many Ghostly Fingers, Out To Dangerous Seas, Where Fragments Of Great Wrecks Were Drifting, Perhaps, And Helpless Men Were Rocked Upon Them Into A Sleep As Deep As The Unfathomable Waters.

Yes. He Is Quite A Good Fellow - Nobody's Enemy But His Own.

We Must Meet Reverses Boldly, And Not Suffer Them To Frighten Us, My Dear. We Must Learn To Act The Play Out. We Must Live Misfortune Down, Trot!

The Leprosy Of Unreality Disfigured Every Human Creature In Attendance.