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Procrastination is the thief of time, collar him.
Charles Dickens
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Charles Dickens
Age: 58 †
Born: 1812
Born: February 7
Died: 1870
Died: June 9
Author
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Landport
Hampshire
Dickens
C.Dickens
Charles John Huffam Dickens
Boz
Collar
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Procrastination
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Time
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Yet, I had nothing else to tell unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still), that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I believed it in the writing.
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A very little key will open a very heavy door.
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Death may beget life, but oppression can beget nothing other than itself.
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The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together and to rest in her bosom.
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Vices are sometimes only virtues carried to excess!
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All I would say is, that I can go abroad without your family coming forward to favour me, - in short, with a parting Shove of their cold shoulders and that, upon the whole, I would rather leave England with such impetus as I possess, than derive any acceleration of it from that quarter.
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No space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused
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Pale and pinched-up faces hovered about the windows where was tempting food hungry eyes wandered over the profusion guarded by one thin sheet of brittle glass--an iron wall to them half-naked shivering figures stopped to gaze at Chinese shawls and golden stuffs of India.
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I feel an earnest and humble desire, and shall do till I die, to increase the stock of harmless cheerfulness.
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Friendless I can never be, for all mankind are my kindred, and I am on ill terms with no one member of my great family.
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When the moon shines very brilliantly, a solitude and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence even crowded places full of life.
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While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight, floated away upon the river and thus do greater things that once were in our breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal sea.
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It was the momentary yielding of a nature that had been disappointed from the dawn of its perceptions, but had not quite given up all its hopeful yearnings yet.
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But tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble’s soul his heart was waterproof. Like washable beaver hats that improve with rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him.
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A man can well afford to be as bold as brass, my good fellow, when he gets gold in exchange!
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