you if you could see before you your own vague, purple eyes, and your red red lips, and those hands of power and romance—you, with your scarlet gown and the gold marguerites coming near and fading away in mist?"
"No, not particularly," said my friend Annabel Lee. "I rather like your looks," she added, and her purple eyes became less vague—"sitting there in your small black frock; and you puff at that tobacco much like a toy engine. Come, you amuse me—you please me. Come near me."
She held out one of her hands and the purple eyes changed suddenly into something that was rarely and indescribably friendly.
I felt much from life.
My friend Annabel Lee rested the hand she had held out upon my shoulder.
"When we go into the great, broad
