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Письмо №18 стр. 26

But until that day of final triumph someone has to be sacrificed — though we accept but voluntary victims. The ungrateful task did lay her low and desolate in the ruins of misery, misapprehension, and isolation: but she will have her reward in the hereafter for we never were ungrateful. As regards the Adept — not one of my kind, good friend, but far higher — you might have closed your book with those lines of Tennyson's "Wakeful Dreamer" — you knew him not —

"How could ye know him? Ye were yet within The narrower circle; he had well nigh reached The last, which, with a region of white flame, Pure without heat, into a larger air Up-burning, and an ether of black blue, Invests and ingirds all other lives. . . ."

I'll close. Remember then on the 17th of July and. . . . [Here again six lines in the original have been deleted. — ED.] . . . ., to you will become the sublimest of realities.

Farewell.

Sincerely yours,

K. H.