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fire; and Gwynplaine saw flaming at the bottom of his thought the
enigmatical words, the meaning of which was at length solved: "Destiny
never opens one door without closing another."
All was over. The final shadows had gathered about him. In every man's
fate there may be an end of the world for himself alone. It is called
despair. The soul is full of falling stars.
This, then, was what he had come to.
A vapour had passed. He had been mingled with it. It had lain heavily on
his eyes; it had disordered his brain. He had been outwardly blinded,
intoxicated within. This had lasted the time of a passing vapour. Then
everything melted away, the vapour and his life. Awaking from the dream,
he found himself alone.
All vanished, all gone, all lost--night--nothingness. Such was his
horizon.
He was alone.
Alone has a synonym, which is Dead. Despair is an accountant. It sets
itself to find its total; it adds up everything, even to the farthings.
It reproaches Heaven with its thunderbolts and its pinpricks. It seeks
to find what it has to expect from fate. It argues, weighs, and
calculates, outwardly cool, while the burning lava is still flowing on
within.
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