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’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. 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.

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