For the sort of love-making you think about. 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. Funny how all but the most cunning and promiscuous teenage girls never caught on, not in 1400, certainly not now. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces.
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