‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. I haven't much money; I don't know how much it is going to cost me to reach Hartford; so I fixed over a couple of my mother's dresses. 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. Wagstaff. “It’s about forty pounds.
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