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For Geoffrey the prelude has been played, and now at last he knows it. Up and down the little hall he paces, his hands behind his back, as his wont when deep in day-dreams, and asks himself many a question hitherto unthought of. Can he—shall he—go farther in this matter? Then this thought presses to the front beyond all others:—"Does she—will she—ever love me?" Her eyes are large and blue, with a shade of green in them; her lips are soft and mobile; her whole expression is debonnaire, yet full of tenderness. She is brightness itself; each inward thought, be it of grief or gladness, makes itself outwardly known in the constant changes of her face. Her hair is cut above her forehead, and is quite golden, yet perhaps it is a degree darker than the ordinary hair we hear described as yellow. To me, to think of Dorothy Darling's head is always to remind myself of that line in Milton's "Comus," where he speaks of "Yet what does Feltham say? 'He that hopes too much shall deceive himself at last' Your medicine is dangerous, darling. It will kill you in the end. Just think, Dorothy, how could you live on five hundred a year!".
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Mr. Rodney, basely forsaking the donkey, returns to his mutton. "There must be a dressmaker in Dublin," he says, "and we could write to her. Don't you know one?" "'Bonnie Lesley:' the poet says of her what I think of you." "Are you a man, to make me such a speech?" she says, passionately, fixing her eyes upon him with withering contempt. "Why, Spice, of course," opening her eyes. "Didn't you know. Why, what else could I mean?".
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