I deserve pretty much what I’ve got. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. Stanley in her illness that her husband consented to receive Mr. 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. I loathe this room.
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