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Excerpt from Avillion and Other Tales, Vol. 3 of 3
All this reads very wild and mad; but, Oh Laurence, Laurence! None would marvel at it who had once looked on thee! Not that he is a perfect Apollo this worshipped husband Of mine: you may meet a Score far handsomer. But who cares? Not I! All that is grand, all that is beautiful, all that makes a man look godlike through the inward shining Of his godlike soul,-i see in my Laurence. His eyes, soft yet proud, his wavy hair, his hand that I sit and clasp, his strong arm that I lean ou - all compose an image wherein I see no ¿aw. Nay, I could scarce believe in any beauty that bore no likeness to Laurence.
Thus is my husband - what am I? His wife - and no more. Everything in me is only a re¿ection of him. Sometimes I even marvel that he loved me, so unworthy as I seem: yet, when heaven rained on me the rich blessing of his love, my thirsty soul drank it in, and I felt that had it never come, for lack Of it I must have died. I did almost die, for the joy was long in coming. Though, as I know now, he loved me well and dearly; yet for some reason or other he would not tell me so. The veil might never have fallen from our hearts, save for one blessed chance. I will relate it. I love to dream over that brief hour, to which my whole existence can never show a parallel.
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