‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. 23 She had always considered herself a simple wool maker’s daughter, but she began to realize that by marrying Gianfrancesco she had unwittingly gained entrance to a separate world. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls.
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