Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. “Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. 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 was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some independent notions of its own.
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