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I think the Romans must have aggravated one another very much, with their noses. Perhaps, they became the restless people they were, in consequence.
Charles Dickens
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Charles Dickens
Age: 58 †
Born: 1812
Born: February 7
Died: 1870
Died: June 9
Author
Editor
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Social Critic
Writer
Landport
Hampshire
Dickens
C.Dickens
Charles John Huffam Dickens
Boz
People
Consequence
Became
Perhaps
Another
Must
Aggravated
Much
Romans
Think
Restless
Thinking
Noses
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Family not only need to consist of merely those whom we share blood, but also for those whom we'd give blood.
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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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Christmas is a time in which, of all times in the year, the memory of every remediable sorrow, wrong, and trouble in the world around us, should be active with us, not less than our own experiences, for all good.
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It was the beginning of a day in June the deep blue sky unsullied by a cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The streets were, as yet, nearly free from passengers, the houses and shops were closed, and the healthy air of morning fell like breath from angels, on the sleeping town.
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[She wasn't] a logically reasoning woman, but God is good, and hearts may count in heaven as high as heads.
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If I could not walk far and fast, I think I should just explode and perish.
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I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes.
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Oh Agnes, Oh my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life indeed so may I, when realities are melting from me, like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!
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Old Marley was dead as a doornail... The wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile.
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Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with Heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.
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Poetry makes life what lights and music do the stage.
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