When every hope is gone, 'when helpers fail and comforts flee,' I find that help arrives somehow, from I know not where. Supplication, worship, prayer are no superstition; they are acts more real than the acts of eating, drinking, sitting or walking. It is no exaggeration to say that they alone are real, all else is unreal.
I will not let anyone walk through my mind with their dirty feet.
The newspaperman has become a walking plague. He spreads the contagion of lies and calumnies.
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