And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me. “Very well,” he said. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. I make no apology for not being with you now.
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