Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. “What the hell. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues The fuller I fill it—the fuller! IV.
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