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Updated: May 8, 2025
I am a Frenchman myself." He flies over the plaza, his long robe fluttering behind him. His quickened steps prove a friendly interest. Maxima's heart swells within him. The beloved language has unlocked the priestly heart. In five minutes the curate is back. "Come with me, 'mon fils," he says. Guided by the priest, Maxime leaves his prison, its unlocked door swinging open.
Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongu'd Greek, Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain By Art he gladly found what he did seek A full requital of his, striving pain Art can do much, but this maxima's most sure A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.
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