If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. ‘Certainly you are imbecile. “What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?” Ennison looked at him in surprise. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. 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.
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