We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. “No! My father. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. But I’m going to-day.
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