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18 lines
1.1 KiB
Text
18 lines
1.1 KiB
Text
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long
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precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing
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particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a
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little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of
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driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I
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find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp,
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drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily
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pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every
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funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper
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hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me
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from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically
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knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to
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sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.
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With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I
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quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If
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they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or
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other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with
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me.
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