Has the finger of death to be laid on the tumult of life from time to time lest it rend us asunder?  Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?   And then what strange powers are these that penetrate our most secret ways and change our most treasured possessions without our willing it?   Had Orlando, worn out by the extremity of his suffering, died for a week, and then come to life again?   And if so, of what nature is death and of what nature life?   Having waited well over half an hour for an answer to these questions, and none coming, let us get on with the story.

Orlando, chapter 2.

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