He was up here the other day. Why, the pulsation was
as plain--why, the entire arch of the aorta-- What! you get out
here? Good-by."
Of course no moralist, no man writing for a sensitive and strictly
virtuous public, could further interest himself in this man. So I
dismissed him at once from my mind, and returned to the literary
contemplation of virtue that was clearly and positively defined,
and of Sin, that invariably commenced with a capital letter. That
this man, in his awful condition, hovering on the verge of
eternity, should allow himself to be attracted by--but it was
horrible to contemplate.
Nevertheless, a month afterwards, I was returning from a festivity
with my intimate friend Smith, my distinguished friend Jobling, my
most respectable friend Robinson, and my wittiest friend Jones. It
was a clear, star-lit morning, and we seemed to hold the broad,
beautiful avenue to ourselves; and I fear we acted as if it were
so. As we hilariously passed the corner of Eighteenth Street, a
coupe rolled by, and I suddenly heard my name called from its
gloomy depths.
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