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John Quincy Adams
Have you no pity for him, our helpless son? Or me, and the destiny that weighs me down, your widow, now so soon? Yes, soon they will kill you off, all the Achaean forces massed for assault, and then bereft of you, better for me to sink beneath the earth. What other warmth, what comfort's left for me, once you have met your doom? Nothing but torment!
topics: war  
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