At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. 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. Presently. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent.
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