Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes — die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.
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submitted by GreenLantern, September 23, 2010
From The Man of the Crowd by Edgar Allen Poe
This quote was added November 29, 2007.