It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.
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