| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Ball at Sceaux by Honore de Balzac: accuse your father. I shall not refuse to take proper steps and help
you, only your choice must be serious and final. I will never twice
compromise the respect due to my white hairs."
The affection thus expressed by her father, the solemn tones of his
urgent address, deeply touched Mademoiselle de Fontaine; but she
concealed her emotion, seated herself on her father's knees--for he
had dropped all tremulous into his chair again--caressed him fondly,
and coaxed him so engagingly that the old man's brow cleared. As soon
as Emilie thought that her father had got over his painful agitation,
she said in a gentle voice: "I have to thank you for your graceful
attention, my dear father. You have had your room set in order to
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Copy-Cat & Other Stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman: which a soldier might hold a bayonet, and knew it
for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he beheld
also his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and his
long ambling body and legs. Jonathan was coming
home from the post-office, whither he repaired every
morning. He never got a letter, never anything
except religious newspapers, but the visit to the
post-office was part of his daily routine. Rain or
shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morning
mail, and gained thereby a queer negative enjoy-
ment of a perfectly useless duty performed. Johnny
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Lady Windermere's Fan by Oscar Wilde: this woman - fascinated by her - dominated by her. If a woman
wants to hold a man, she has merely to appeal to what is worst in
him. We make gods of men and they leave us. Others make brutes of
them and they fawn and are faithful. How hideous life is! . . .
Oh! it was mad of me to come here, horribly mad. And yet, which is
the worst, I wonder, to be at the mercy of a man who loves one, or
the wife of a man who in one's own house dishonours one? What
woman knows? What woman in the whole world? But will he love me
always, this man to whom I am giving my life? What do I bring him?
Lips that have lost the note of joy, eyes that are blinded by
tears, chill hands and icy heart. I bring him nothing. I must go
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