is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable

consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in

that individuality, and which I shall carry in mind to my life’s end.

In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is

there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in

their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the

King, the first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in

London. So with the three passengers shut up in the narrow

compass of one lumbering old mail-coach; they were mysteries to

one another, as complete as if each had been in his own coach and

six, or his own coach and sixty, with the breadth of a county

between him and the next.

The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often

at ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep

his own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had

eyes that assorted very well with that decoration, being of a

surface black, with no depth in the colour or form, and much too

near togetheras if they were afraid of being found out in

something, singly, if they kept too far apart. They had a sinister