what shall one do when nothing but shame, embarrassment of outcome, morose and tedious bitterness and pessimistic nostalgia fills one's heart-fortress and forces all dreams and aspirations out of there, rendering the court-yard of a once mighty castle a market for impuissance and resentment, rendering the hoof of the king, a sanctity and a shrine once, a horticulture for the insidious bitterness of regret ?
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