I saw her face and it was the face that had been hidden from me in dreams, a face very much like yours, Lucia. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. I’ve never met any one like you. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death.
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