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I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry--I cannot hit upon the right name for the smart--God knows what its name was--that tears started to my eyes.
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
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Spurned
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Sorry
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Cannot
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Right
Started
More quotes by Charles Dickens
Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was the night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from it - as at last I did, thank Heaven! - and from its long, sad, wretched dream, to dawn.
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Money, says the proverb, makes money. When you have got a little, it is often easy to get more.
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I have always thought of Christmas time... as a good time a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time.
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The ocean asks for nothing but those who stand by her shores gradually attune themselves to her rhythm.
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True love believes everything, and bears everything, and trusts everything.
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A man is lucky if he is the first love of a woman. A woman is lucky if she is the last love of a man.
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Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you.
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Fledgeby deserved Mr. Alfred Lammle's eulogium. He was the meanest cur existing, with a single pair of legs. And instinct (a word we all clearly understand) going largely on four legs, and reason always on two, meanness on four legs never attains the perfection of meanness on two.
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Your Honour, unless your Honour, without a moment's loss of time, makes sail for the nearest shore, this is a doomed ship, and her name is the Coffin!
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The rich, sweet smell of the hayricks rose to his chamber window the hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air around the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air: and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were a fountain of inspiration to them.
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The cloud of caring for nothing, which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely pierced by the light within him.
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Consider nothing impossible, then treat possiblities as probabilities.
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Everything that Mr Smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all his life he has never bred a single butterfly.
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All of us have wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke them.
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A very little key will open a very heavy door.
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There seems a magic in the very name of Christmas.
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It is required of every man, the ghost returned, that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide and, if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death.
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Many merry Christmases, many happy New Years. Unbroken friendships, great accumulations of cheerful recollections and affections on earth, and heaven for us all.
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It is when our budding hopes are nipped beyond recovery by some rough wind, that we are the most disposed to picture to ourselves what flowers they might have borne, if they had flourished . . .
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They are Man's and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance and this girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.
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