You must forgive the poet’s license I take. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. Stunning and continuous, the din seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. You represent to me an enigma, the solution of which has become the one desire of my life.
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