These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. . A wide terrace then led to large iron gates,' over which were placed the two celebrated figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the wellknown lines:— "Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where, o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. '" "An ingenious device," laughed Gay. \" She sat down on a nearby bench. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. “The fees are paid to the end of the session. I'll call for you this afternoon when Wu is on. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. But when she spoke her lips quivered, and they came. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. It’s kind of the World War II thing.
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