"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 rich, sweet smell of the hayricks rose to his chamber window; the hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air around; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air: and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were a fountain of inspiration to them."
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Source: Charles Dickens (1838). “The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club”, p.52
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