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Chapter 6

           What,indeed,ifyoulookfromamountaintopdownthelongwastesoftheages?Theverystoneonekickswithone’sbootwilloutlastShakespeare.Hisownlittlelightwouldshine,notverybrightly,forayearortwo,andwouldthenbemergedinsomebiggerlight,andthatinabiggerstill.(Helookedintothehedge,intotheintricacyofthetwigs.)Whothencouldblametheleaderofthatforlornpartywhichafterallhasclimbedhighenoughtoseethewasteoftheyearsandtheperishingofthestars,ifbeforedeathstiffenshislimbsbeyondthepowerofmovementhedoesalittleconsciouslyraisehisnumbedfingerstohisbrow,andsquarehisshoulders,sothatwhenthesearchpartycomestheywillfindhimdeadathispost,thefinefigureofasoldier?Mr.Ramsaysquaredhisshouldersandstoodveryuprightbytheurn

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