The doctor reached over and laid his hand upon Spurlock's heart. “There ought to be a Censorship of Books. I’ve had enough of it. I could not keep away any longer. He drove her to the Beck house, pulling up behind Cathy's red Nissan. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. He was the true optimist; and that he should proceed, serenely unconscious of reefs and storms, she accepted the double buffets. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. “I’m not nearly so sure as you.
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