| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The $30,000 Bequest and Other Stories by Mark Twain: not worry about the imaginary gas-bills, and get for all comfort
Sally's reckless retort: "What of it? We can afford it."
Before the couple went to bed, that first night that they were rich,
they had decided that they must celebrate. They must give a party--
that was the idea. But how to explain it--to the daughters and
the neighbors? They could not expose the fact that they were rich.
Sally was willing, even anxious, to do it; but Aleck kept her head
and would not allow it. She said that although the money was as
good as in, it would be as well to wait until it was actually in.
On that policy she took her stand, and would not budge.
The great secret must be kept, she said--kept from the daughters and
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Burning Daylight by Jack London: with this man in the hills. It would be that only and nothing
more, for she was firmly convinced that his way of life could
never be her way. On the other hand, she was vexed by none of
the ordinary feminine fears and timidities. That she could take
care of herself under any and all circumstances she never
doubted. Then why not? It was such a little thing, after all.
She led an ordinary, humdrum life at best. She ate and slept and
worked, and that was about all. As if in review, her anchorite
existence passed before her: six days of the week spent in the
office and in journeying back and forth on the ferry; the hours
stolen before bedtime for snatches of song at the piano, for
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Wife, et al by Anton Chekhov: tears in her voice --"for God's sake, take this burden off me! I
am so worried!"
It is painful for me to look at her.
"Very well, Varya," I say affectionately, "if you wish it, then
certainly I will go to Harkov and do all you want."
She presses her handkerchief to her eyes and goes off to her room
to cry, and I am left alone.
A little later lights are brought in. The armchair and the
lamp-shade cast familiar shadows that have long grown wearisome
on the walls and on the floor, and when I look at them I feel as
though the night had come and with it my accursed sleeplessness.
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