When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet. "Mine died while I was over here. She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. ” “My Mom complains that she’s tired all the time. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. Spit of your mother. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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