” Manning tapped with his racket on the turf through some moments of silence. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear.
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