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"And it run on like that. I don't understand it all. It was written to my father " "A love poem!" Mrs. Mortimer broke in. "I remember it. Wait a minute.... Da-da-dah, da-da-dah, da-da-dah, da-da STANDS "'In the spray of a fountain, whose seed-amethysts Tremble lightly a moment on bosom and hands, Then drip in their basin from bosom and wrists.
"I've never forgotten the drip of the seed-amethysts, though I don't remember your mother's name." "It was Daisy " Saxon began. "No; Dayelle," Mrs. Mortimer corrected with quickening recollection. "Oh, but nobody called her that." "But she signed it that way. What is the rest?" "Daisy Wiley Brown." Mrs. Mortimer went to the bookshelves and quickly returned with a large, soberly-bound volume.
"Flushes faintly the brow of a naiad that stands In the spray of a fountain, whose seed-amethysts Tremble lightly a moment on bosom and hands, Then dip in their basin from bosom and wrists." "It's beautiful, just beautiful," she sighed. And then, appalled at the length of all the poem, at the volume of the mystery, she rolled the manuscript and put it away.
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