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“Can I say of her face—altered as I have reason to remember it, perished as I know it is—that it is gone, when here it comes before me at this instant, as distinct as any face that I may choose to look on in a crowded street?… Can I say she ever changed, when my remembrance brings her back to life, thus only; and, truer to its loving youth, than I have ever been, or man ever is, still holds fast, what it cherished then?” — Charles Dickins
Can I say of her face—altered as I have reason to remember it, perished as I know it is—that it is gone, when here it comes before me at this instant, as distinct as any face that I may choose to look on in a crowded street?… Can I say she ever changed, when my remembrance brings her back to life, thus only; and, truer to its loving youth, than I have ever been, or man ever is, still holds fast, what it cherished then?