"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."
"The cold hoarfrost glistened on the tombstones, and sparkled like rows of gems, among the stone carvings of the old church. The snow lay hard and crisp upon the ground; and spread over the thickly-strewn mounds of earth, so white and smooth a cover, that it seemed as if corpses lay there, hidden only by their winding sheets."
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Source: Charles Dickens (1838). “The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club”, p.375
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