单于红辰 46万字 641555人读过 连载
it was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. there was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. but it was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused the change. his own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. with subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. their strong passions must either bruise or bend. they either slay the man, or themselves die. shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. the loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity and not a little of contempt.