Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. “I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. The wings stopped. The ladies were, as usual, very gaily dressed; and as usual, also, had resorted to art to heighten their attractions— From patches, justly placed, they borrow'd graces, And with vermilion lacquer'd o'er their faces. I have only one question to ask you.
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