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When I lived in that little Connecticut cottage, the water I used for making the cups of jasmine tea which warmed me in the early mornings and slaked my thirst in the mid-afternoons, came from a spring close by. It had a neighbour, a brook that leaped after rains from stone to stone but sometimes dried up completely. The spring itself never went dry, never stopped giving its beneficent draught. My happiness was just like that spring. It bubbled up all the time, unfailingly fresh.

-- Notebooks Category 12: Reflections > Chapter 6: The Profane and The Profound > # 254

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