Detestation Of The High Is The Involuntary

My Dear Young Lady, Crime, Like Death, Is Not Confined To The Old And Withered Alone. The Youngest And Fairest Are Too Often Its Chosen Victims.

There Seems A Magic In The Very Name Of Christmas.

Troubles Are Exceedingly Gregarious In Their Nature, And Flying In Flocks Are Apt To Perch Capriciously.

It Was A Very Aged, Ghostly Place; The Church Had Been Built Many Hundreds Of Years Ago, And Had Once Had A Convent Or Monastery Attached; For Arches In Ruins, Remains Of Oriel Windows, And Fragments Of Blackened Walls, Were Yet Standing-, While Other Portions Of The Old Building, Which Had Crumbled Away And Fallen Down, Were Mingled With The Churchyard Earth And Overgrown With Grass, As If They Too Claimed A Burying-place And Sought To Mix Their Ashes With The Dust Of Men.

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.