Memory is always in art, even when it works involuntarily.

The war at Troy seemed to grow in song, poetry, and story all the while. As it faded from living memory, it grew larger and larger. Men claimed descent from one or the other of the heroes, or, failing that, anyone who had fought in the war, which now assumed the stature of a clash between the gods and the titans.

That young girl is one of the least benightedly unintelligent organic life forms it has been my profound lack of pleasure not to be able to avoid meeting.

She says, he is a great soul.—A great bladder for dried peas to rattle in!” said Mrs. Cadwallader.

Written By George Eliot

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