But to live, – to wear on, day after day, of mean, bitter, low, harassing servitude, every nerve dampened and depressed, every power of feeling gradually smothered, – this long and wasting heart-martyrdom, this slow, daily bleeding away of the inward life, drop by drop, hour after hour, – this is the true searching test of what there may be in man or woman.
-Harriet Beecher Stowe
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