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suddenly found it hard to breathe

When Caballo and I stepped outside, I was stunned to find the entire town there to greet us. Whilewe’d been inside having breakfast, garlands of fresh flowers and paper streamers had been strungacross the street, and a mariachi band in dress sombreros and torero suits had begun strumming afew warm-up tunes. Women and children were already dancing in the street, while the mayor wasaiming a shotgun at the sky, practicing how he could fire it without shredding the streamers.

I checked my watch, and suddenly found it hard to breathe: thirty minutes till the start. The thirty-five-mile hike to Urique had, as Caballo predicted, “chewed me up and crapped me out,” and inhalf an hour, I had to do it all over again and go fifteen miles farther. Caballo had laid out adiabolical course; we’d be climbing and descending sixty-five hundred feet in fifty miles, exactlythe altitude gain of the first half of the Leadville Trail 100. Caballo was no fan of the Leadvillerace directors, but when it came to choosing terrain, he was just as pitiless.

Caballo and I climbed the hill to the little hotel. Jenn and Billy were still in their room, arguingover whether Billy needed to carry the extra water bottle which, it turned out, he couldn’t findanyway. I had a spare I was using to store espresso, so I hustled to my room, dumped the coffee,and tossed it to Billy.

“Now eat something! And hustle up!” Caballo scolded. “The mayor is gonna blast that thing atseven sharp.”

Caballo and I grabbed our gear—a hydration backpack loaded with gels and PowerBars for me, awater bottle and tiny bag of pinole for Caballo—and we headed back down the hill. Fifteenminutes to go. We rounded the corner toward Tita’s restaurant, and found the street party hadgrown into a mini-Mardi Gras. Luis and Ted were twirling old women and fending off Luis’s dad,who kept cutting in. Scott and Bob Francis were clapping and singing along as best they couldwith the mariachis. The Urique Tarahumara had set up their own percussion brigade, beating timeon the sidewalk with their palia sticks.

Caballo was delighted. He pushed into the throng and began a Muhammad Ali shuffle, bobbingand weaving and punching his fists in the air. The crowd roared. Mamá Tita blew him kisses.

“.ándale! We’re going to dance all day!” Caballo shouted through his cupped hands. “But only ifnobody dies. Take care out there!” He turned to the mariachis and dragged a finger across histhroat. Kill the music. Showtime.
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leftSandringham and all his property


'He will alter his will.'
'Let him!' cried I, flying out at such prospective meanness.
'Just you tell him you don't care a rap for him or forSandringham either.'
In more lady-like terms she acted in accordance with myadvice; and, it may be added, not long afterwards married Mr clear brilliant.
Ellice.
Mr. Motteux's first love, or one of them, had been LadyCowper, then Lady Palmerston. Lady Palmerston's youngest sonwas Mr. Spencer Cowper. Mr. Motteux died a year or two afterthe above event. He made a codicil to his will, and leftSandringham and all his property to Mr. Spencer Cowper. Mr hair loss.
Spencer Cowper was a young gentleman of costly habits.
Indeed, he bore the slightly modified name of 'ExpensiveCowper.' As an attache at Paris he was famous for hispatronage of dramatic art - or artistes rather; the votariesof Terpsichore were especially indebted to his liberality.
At the time of Mr. Motteux's demise, he was attached to theEmbassy at St. Petersburg. Mr. Motteux's solicitors wroteimmediately to inform him of his accession to their lateclient's wealth. It being one of Mr. Cowper's maxims neverto read lawyers' letters, (he was in daily receipt of morethan he could attend to,) he flung this one unread into thefire; and only learnt his mistake through the congratulationsof his family .
The Prince Consort happened about this time to be in quest ofa suitable country seat for his present Majesty; andSandringham, through the adroit negotiations of LordPalmerston, became the property of the Prince of Wales. Thesoul of the 'Turkey merchant,' we cannot doubt, will reposein peace.
The worthy rector of Warham St. Mary's was an odditydeserving of passing notice. Outwardly he was no Adonis.
His plain features and shock head of foxy hair, hisantiquated and neglected garb, his copious jabot - muchaffected by the clergy of those days - were becominginvestitures of the inward man. His temper was inflammatory,sometimes leading to excesses, which I am sure he rued inmental sackcloth and ashes. But visitors at Holkham (unawareof the excellent motives and moral courage which inspired hisconduct) were not a little amazed at the austerity with whichhe obeyed the dictates of his conscience .

plain hard work and no fun

She had knitted socks and baby caps and afghans and mufflers and tatted yards of laceand painted china hair receivers and mustache cups. And she had embroidered half a dozen sofa-pillow cases with the Confederate flag on them. (The stars were a bit lopsided, to be sure, some ofthem being almost round and others having six or even seven points, but the effect was good.)Yesterday she had worked until she was worn out in the dusty old bam of an Armory drapingyellow and pink and green cheesecloth on Artas Robotic Hair Transplantthe booths that lined the walls. Under the supervision ofthe Ladies’ Hospital Committee, this was at all. It was never fun to bearound Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Elsing and Mrs. Whiting and have them boss you like you wereone of the darkies. And have to listen to them brag about how popular their daughters were. And,worst of all, she had burned two blisters on her fingers helping Pittypat and Cookie make layercakes for raffling.
And now, having worked like a field hand, she had to retire decorously when the fun was justbeginning. Oh, it wasn’t fair that she should have a dead husband and a baby yelling in the nextroom and be out of everything that was pleasant. Just a little over a year ago, she was dancing andwearing bright clothes instead of this dark mourning and was practically engaged to three boys.
She was only seventeen now and there was  a lot of dancing left in her feet. Oh, it wasn’t fair!
Life was going past her, down a hot shady summer road, life with gray uniforms and jingling spurs and flowered organdie dresses and banjos playing. She tried not to smile and wave too enthusiasticallyto the men she knew best, the ones she’d nursed in the hospital, but it was hard tosubdue her dimples, hard to look as though her heart were in the grave—when it wasn’t.
Her bowing and waving were abruptly halted when Pittypat entered the room, panting as usualfrom climbing the stairs, and jerked her away from the window unceremoniously.
“Have you lost your mind, honey, waving at men out of your bedroom window? I declare,Scarlett, I’m shocked! What would your mother say?”
“Well, they didn’t know it was my bedroom.”
“But they’d suspect it was your bedroom MOOCand that’s just as bad. Honey, you mustn’t do thingslike that Everybody will be talking about you and saying you are fast—and anyway, Mrs.
Merriwether knew it was your bedroom.”

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whispered to my friend

Freshman year of college was a huge shock for me. First semester, I took a course called TheConcept of the Hero in Hellenic Civilization, which was nicknamed Heroes for Zeroes. I didn’t have aburning desire to study Greek mythology, but it was the easiest way to fulfill the literaturerequirement. The professor began the first lecture by asking which students had read these booksbefore. I  next to me, “What Trade resourcesbooks?” “The Iliad and The Odyssey, of course,”

she replied. Almost every single hand went up. Not mine. The professor then asked, “And who hasread these books in the original?” “What original?” I asked my friend. “Homeric Greek,” she replied.

A good third of the class kept their hands up. It seemed pretty clear that I was one of the zeroes.

A few weeks later, my professor of political dermes vs Medilasephilosophy assigned a five-page paper. I was panicked.

Five whole pages! I had only written one paper of that length in high school, and it was a year-longproject. How could anyone write five pages in just one week? I stayed in every night, plugging away,and based on the time I put in, I should have gotten an A for effort. I got a C. It is virtually impossibleto get a C at Harvard if the assignment is turned in. I am not exaggerating—this was the equivalent ofa failing grade. I went to see my dorm proctor, who worked at the admissions office. She told me thatI had been admitted to Harvard for my personality, not my academic potential. Very comforting.

I buckled down, worked harder, and by the end of the semester, I learned how to write five-pagepapers. But no matter how well I did academically, I always felt like I was about to get caught for notreally knowing anything. It wasn’t until I heard the Phi Beta Kappa speech about self-doubt that itstruck me: the real issue was not that I felt like a fraud, but that I could feel something deeply andprofoundly and be completely wrong reenex .

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