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"Notre coeur est un instrument incomplet une lyre ou il manque des cordes, et ou nous sommes forces de rendre les accens de la joie, sur le ton consacre aux soupirs." * Quid aegrotus unquam somniavit quod philosophorum aliquis non dixerit? You ask me to give you some sketch of my life, and of that bel mondo which wearied me so soon.
Honor is seated at the piano, stealing her slender fingers over the ivory keys. It is a low, rippling strain Valse des Soupirs such as fairies might bring from their magic touch. 'Tis the music of her own heart the sound of her sighs, and she plays on softly, heedlessly. She is lost in the ecstacy of her own reverie. We turn to the other side of the picture.
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