There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
Besides, their pains and pleasures are so dependent on outward circumstances […] that they seldom act from the impulse of a nerved mind, able to choose its own pursuit.
With her thesis defence coming up, she is completely stressed out.
Haue I not bene / Thy Pupill long? Haſt thou not learn'd me hovv / To make Perfumes? Diſtill? Preſerue?
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