I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. "Vot are you?" "Practising patience," growled Abraham. ‘I’ll handle her better alone. Then she sang. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards.
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