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It is a most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home.
Charles Dickens
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Charles Dickens
Age: 58 †
Born: 1812
Born: February 7
Died: 1870
Died: June 9
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Hampshire
Dickens
C.Dickens
Charles John Huffam Dickens
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Ashamed
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Home is a word stronger than a magician ever spoke.
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Ah, Miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has the spirits to bear it! said Mrs Wickam, shaking her head. My own spirits is not equal to it, but I don't owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so blest!
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The world belongs to those who set out to conquer it armed with self confidence and good humour.
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I know quite enough of myself, said Bella, with a charming air of being inclined to give herself up as a bad job, and I don't improve upon acquaintance...
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Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to roof, and holds dominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping through the windows: and, giving place to day, sees night withdraw into the vaults, and follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead.
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A child! said Edith, looking at her. When was I a child? What childhood did you ever leave to me? I was a woman - artful, designing, mercenary, laying snares for men - before I knew myself, or you, or even understood the base and wretched aim of every new display I learnt. You gave birth to a woman. Look upon her. She is in her pride tonight
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When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil but wait for the time with the tiger and the devil chained -not shown- yet always ready.
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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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We must leave the discovery of this mystery, like all others, to time, and accident, and Heaven's pleasure.
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Never, said my aunt, be mean in anything never be false never be cruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I can always be hopeful of you.
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He did each single thing as if he did nothing else.
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Shall we speak of the inspiration of a poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled by love and self-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life?
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It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, many unavailing sorrows and regrets.
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There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands.
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The weathercocks on spires and housetops were mysterious with hints of stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers, out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks were drifting, perhaps, and helpless men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as the unfathomable waters.
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