And yet—I love you. I can't pump out all there is to these compositions. You have been her guardian angel. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Only promise me to amend—to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you—will bless you. Epithalamy might do.
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