” Mr. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. 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's but one way of clearing it, your worship," said the Master, archly. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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