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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

"Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the Riots of 'eighty"

How much more sad the crumbled embers of a home: the casting
down of that great altar, where the worst among us sometimes perform
the worship of the heart; and where the best have offered up such
sacrifices, and done such deeds of heroism, as, chronicled, would put
the proudest temples of old Time, with all their vaunting annals, to the
blush!
He roused himself from a long train of meditation, and walked slowly
round the house. It was by this time almost dark.
He had nearly made the circuit of the building, when he uttered a
half-suppressed exclamation, started, and stood still. Reclining, in an
easy attitude, with his back against a tree, and contemplating the ruin
with an expression of pleasure,--a pleasure so keen that it overcame his
habitual indolence and command of feature, and displayed itself utterly
free from all restraint or reserve,--before him, on his own ground,
and triumphing then, as he had triumphed in every misfortune and
disappointment of his life, stood the man whose presence, of all
mankind, in any place, and least of all in that, he could the least
endure.
Although his blood so rose against this man, and his wrath so stirred
within him, that he could have struck him dead, he put such fierce
constraint upon himself that he passed him without a word or look.


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