The rooks were cawing amid the boughs, and all nature appeared awaking to happiness. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. “Come sit with me, beautiful. 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. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. If I were to marry you now I should feel a dependent being all my life—a sort of parasitical creature without blood or muscle. ‘What is this proof?’ ‘I will not tell you.
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