"A man is lucky if he is the first love of a woman. A woman is lucky if she is the last love of a man."
"He was sailing over a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and the angry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiling and eddying up, on every side. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring in the howling storm: her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast."
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Source: Charles Dickens (1838). “The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club”, p.148
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