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Tarkington, Booth, 1869-1946

"The Turmoil, a novel"

Other times, other names.
He has quite a list."
"You mustn't mind," she said, gently. "He's been getting some pretty
severe shocks. What you've told me makes me pretty sorry for him,
Bibbs. I've always been sure he's very big."
"Yes. Big and--blind. He's like a Hercules without eyes and without
any consciousness except that of his strength and of his purpose to
grow stronger. Stronger for what? For nothing."
"Are you sure, Bibbs? It CAN'T be for nothing; it must be stronger
for something, even though he doesn't know what it is. Perhaps what
he and his kind are struggling for is something so great they COULDN'T
see it--so great none of us could see it."
"No, he's just like some blind, unconscious thing heaving
underground--"
"Till he breaks through and leaps out into the daylight," she
finished for him, cheerily.
"Into the smoke," said Bibbs. "Look at the powder of coal-dust
already dirtying the decent snow, even though it's Sunday. That's
from the little pigs; the big ones aren't so bad, on Sunday! There's
a fleck of soot on your cheek. Some pig sent it out into the air;
he might as well have thrown it on you. It would have been braver,
for then he'd have taken his chance of my whipping him for it if
I could.


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