‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. It came again. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. ” He released her hand and talked in eager undertones against an auditory background of urgency and distress. “Ciao. ” She looked thoughtfully into the fire. Anything that might stir the sense of love And God has mocked me through it all.
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