The Cramped Monotony Of My Existence Grinds

If The World Go Wrong, It Was, In Some Off-hand Manner, Never Meant To Go Right.

The Boy Was Lying, Fast Asleep, On A Rude Bed Upon The Floor; So Pale With Anxiety, And Sadness, And The Closeness Of His Prison, That He Looked Like Death; Not Death As It Shews In Shroud And Coffin, But In The Guise It Wears When Life Has Just Departed; When A Young And Gentle Spirit Has, But An Instant, Fled To Heaven: And The Gross Air Of The World Has Not Had Time To Breathe Upon The Changing Dust It Hallowed.

Repression Is The Only Lasting Philosophy. The Dark Deference Of Fear And Slavery, My Friend, Will Keep The Dogs Obedient To The Whip, As Long As This Roof Shuts Out The Sky.

[s]he Stood For Some Moments Gazing At The Sisters, With Affection Beaming In One Eye, And Calculation Shining Out Of The Other.

He Wore A Sprinkling Of Powder Upon His Head, As If To Make Himself Look Benevolent; But If That Were His Purpose, He Would Perhaps Have Done Better To Powder His Countenance Also, For There Was Something In Its Very Wrinkles, And In His Cold Restless Eye, Which Seemed To Tell Of Cunning That Would Announce Itself In Spite Of Him.