| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Duchess of Padua by Oscar Wilde: Kiss me, Beatrice!
[She takes his face in her hands and bends down and kisses him; a
loud knocking then comes at the door, and GUIDO leaps up; enter a
Servant.]
SERVANT
A package for you, sir.
GUIDO
[carelessly] Ah! give it to me. [Servant hands package wrapped in
vermilion silk, and exit; as GUIDO is about to open it the DUCHESS
comes up behind, and in sport takes it from him.]
DUCHESS
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Vicar of Tours by Honore de Balzac: Gamard's house, by preventing his advancement in the church, and
closing the best salons in Tours against him. By what magic wand had
the present transformation taken place? Surely these things belonged
to Birotteau? And yet, observing the sardonic air with which Troubert
glanced at that bookcase, the poor abbe knew that the future vicar-
general felt certain of possessing the spoils of those he had so
bitterly hated,--Chapeloud as an enemy, and Birotteau, in and through
whom Chapeloud still thwarted him. Ideas rose in the heart of the poor
man at the sight, and plunged him into a sort of vision. He stood
motionless, as though fascinated by Troubert's eyes which fixed
themselves upon him.
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton by Edith Wharton: that's the one thing that matters. If they're parted it spoils
my dinner."
Mrs. Plinth and Mrs. Ballinger exchanged scandalised glances, and
the latter said: "I should hardly advise you to read 'The Wings
of Death,' in that spirit. For my part, when there are so many
books that one HAS to read, I wonder how any one can find time
for those that are merely amusing."
"The beautiful part of it," Laura Glyde murmured, "is surely just
this--that no one can tell HOW 'The Wings of Death' ends. Osric
Dane, overcome by the dread significance of her own meaning, has
mercifully veiled it--perhaps even from herself--as Apelles, in
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