Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. In one of the big gates was a little door, and she rapped at this. "The key," replied the widow. Passing thought. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity.
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