“It’s—private. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. Ants. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. ’ ‘But he’s a major of militia, miss. I know the Dutch.
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