"You cannot? That's because you don't consider, then, what we should
feel if somebody now were to write a grand poem about our fathers,
mothers, aunts, uncles, and dear friends deceased, setting forth how he
had seen them all in the nether regions; how he had received their
confidences, and how penitent most of them were. Persecuted, indeed! and
misunderstood! I consider that his was the deadliest revenge any man
ever took upon his enemies."
Miss Fairbairn's brow, on hearing this, contracted with pain; for John
laughed again, and turning slightly towards Emily as he stood leaning
against the window-frame, took the opportunity to get away from the
subject of Italian literature, and ask her some question about her
knitting.
"It must be something to give away, I am sure. You are always giving."
"But you know, John," she answered, as if excusing herself, "we are not
at all sure that we shall have any possessions, anything of our own, in
the future life--anything, consequently, to give away. Perhaps it will
all belong to all. So let us have enough of giving while we can, and
enjoy the best part of possession.
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