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. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. I spent this afternoon in detention. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. It has instead found you.
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