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"One whispers, 'Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird In native hazels tassel-hung. "The other answers, 'Yea, but here Thy feet have stray'd in after hours With thy lost friend among the bowers, And this hath made them trebly dear." The poem moves on, and once again in the new home Christmas comes round.
As she often had a back-ache, it was easy to wilt among her cushions; as she was always mute before flattery, to smile was as simple as to frown and meant no more; as she was ashamed of herself and her husband, she could hardly hope to lift her honest eyes, or temper her furious blushing. It would be untrue to say that the Borgia's eager under-current of love-language stirred her not at all.
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