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to that pitch. To make loving eyes at a star even, is not
incomprehensible. It is seen again, it reappears, it is fixed in the
sky. But can any one be enamoured of a flash of lightning?
Dreams flowed and ebbed within him. The majestic and gallant idol at the
back of the box had cast a light over his diffused ideas, then faded
away. He thought, yet thought not of it; turned to other
things--returned to it. It rocked about in his brain--nothing more. It
broke his sleep for several nights. Sleeplessness is as full of dreams
as sleep.
It is almost impossible to express in their exact limits the abstract
evolutions of the brain. The inconvenience of words is that they are
more marked in form than ideas. All ideas have indistinct boundary
lines, words have not. A certain diffused phase of the soul ever escapes
words. Expression has its frontiers, thought has none.
The depths of our secret souls are so vast that Gwynplaine's dreams
scarcely touched Dea. Dea reigned sacred in the centre of his soul;
nothing could approach her.
Still (for such contradictions make up the soul of man) there was a
conflict within him. Was he conscious of it? Scarcely.
In his heart of hearts he felt a collision of desires. We all have our
weak points. Its nature would have been clear to Ursus; but to
Gwynplaine it was not.
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