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which is the end of it. I found myself seeking chances to shirk into
corners where I might think, undisturbed; and the most I got out of my
thought, was this: both marriage and death ought to be welcome: the one
promises happiness, doubtless the other assures it. A long procession of
people filed through my mind--people whom you and I knew so many years
ago--so many centuries ago, it seems like-and these ancient dead marched
to the soft marriage music of a band concealed in some remote room of
the house; and the contented music and the dreaming shades seemed in
right accord with each other, and fitting. Nobody else knew that a
procession of the dead was passing though this noisy swarm of the
living, but there it was, and to me there was nothing uncanny about it;
Rio, they were welcome faces to me. I would have liked to bring up
every creature we knew in those days--even the dumb animals--it would be
bathing in the fabled Fountain of Youth.
We all feel your deep trouble with you; and we would hope, if we might,
but your words deny us that privilege. To die one's self is a thing
that must be easy, and of light consequence, but to lose a part of one's
self--well, we know how deep that pang goes, we who have suffered that
disaster, received that wound which cannot heal.
Sincerely your friend
S. L. CLEMENS.
His next is of quite a different nature. Evidently the typesetting
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