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The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. Ann Veronica glanced at the mirror to discover a flushed and dishevelled disorder. Wood, furiously. 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. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. ’ She paused, struggling for the word.
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