Again, his friend`s death made the man sit still and freeze inside—his daughter won first price— his wife scowled over at him— It seemed to be Hallowe`en. His friend`s death had been adjudged suicide, which dangles a trail longer than Henry`s chill, longer than his loss and longer than the letter that he wrote that day to the widow to find out what the hell had happened thus. All souls converge upon a hopeless mote tonight, as though the throngs of souls in hopeless pain rise up to say they cannot care, to say they abide whatever is to come. My air is flung with souls which will not stop and among them hangs a soul that has not died and refuses to come home.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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