Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. He called it "The Man Who Could Not Go Home. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. Ha! ha! What have I left but despair and madness? Promise me one thing, Mr.
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