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an odd thing experience is!—now turning over so rapidly the book of life, now writing so much on a single leaf. We hear of the head turning grey in a single night,—the same change passes over the heart. Affection is the tyrant of a woman, and only bids her to the banquet to suspend a cutting sword over her head, which a word, a look may call down to inflict the wound that strikes to the death, or heals, but with a scar. Could we fling back the veil which nature and society alike draw over her feelings, how much of sorrow—unsuspected because unexpressed—would be found!