‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. They sell only their talents, not their bodies; they are not girls of the street. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. Let him not bear the weight of my punishment.
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