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[142] meanwhile died, and McNamar could only muse in silence over the fading visions of “what might have been.” On his arrival he met Lincoln, who, with the memory of their mutual friend, now dead, constantly before him, “seemed desolate and sorely distressed.” The little acre of ground in Concord cemetery contained the form of his first love, rudely torn from him, and the great world, throbbing with life but cold and heartless, lay spread before him.

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James McNamar (1)
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