| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland by Olive Schreiner: After a while Peter said, bending over a little towards the stranger, "If
you don't want to make money, what did you come to this land for? No one
comes here for anything else. Are you in with the Portuguese?"
"I am not more with one people than with another," said the stranger. "The
Frenchman is not more to me than the Englishman, the Englishman than the
Kaffir, the Kaffir than the Chinaman. I have heard," said the stranger,
"the black infant cry as it crept on its mother's body and sought for her
breast as she lay dead in the roadway. I have heard also the rich man's
child wail in the palace. I hear all cries."
Peter looked intently at him. "Why, who are you?" he said; then, bending
nearer to the stranger and looking up, he added, "What is it that you are
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Ann Veronica by H. G. Wells: would hear it. It was too good to be true. She would not sleep
for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. To
walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and
companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like
stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining
warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that
was the thought of her father.
She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had
done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them
that she had done right. She thought of her father in the garden,
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Man against the Sky by Edwin Arlington Robinson: And fear finds nothing left to mend.
He stares in vain for what awaits him,
And sees in Love a coin to toss;
He smiles, and her cold hush berates him
Beneath his hard half of the cross;
They wonder why it ever was;
And she, the unforgiving, hates him
More for her lack than for her loss.
He feeds with pride his indecision,
And shrinks from what will not occur,
Bequeathing with infirm derision
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