It’s one of our conventional superstitions. Something unpardonable is laid to my charge. That's well. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other. “You will not even answer my letters. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense.
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