Armed, however, with the implement he had so fortunately obtained, he did not despair of success. 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. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come.
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