“I have not quarrelled with her. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. This lover of yours—” “He doesn’t know!” cried Ann Veronica. I might utter a million, and still I doubt if I could make you understand. 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. A silver necklace enhanced the dusky beauty of her neck.
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