When uncultured minds, confined to a narrow range of personal experience, are under the pressure of continued misfortune, their inward life is apt to become a perpetually repeated round of sad and bitter thoughts: the same words, the same scenes are revolved over and over again, the same mood accompanies them-the end of the year finds them as much what they were at the beginning as if they were machines set to a recurrent series of movements.
( George Eliot )
[ The Mill on the Floss ]
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