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16
PHOSPHOR.

CHAPTER II.

Can I describe her? Is it possible for me to describe such bewitching loveliness?

My darling, could my pen do you justice? No! a thousand times, no!

Whatever I should say could give but a feeble idea of you. It was not only your face, or your form, there was an indescribable something about you essentially your own.

You were yourself, that was enough for me. None other in my eyes could be like you.

When you cried you looked prettier than another woman when she smiles. When you smiled I seemed to be nearer God—my brain whirled with excess of joy.

How I blessed that picnic party! The wood for attracting her from her friends, the nuts for causing her to desire them, and most of all, the stick for spraining her ankle! I was thoroughly selfish.

I always have been. I thought nothing of her pain, but merely saw in it a means for me to win her for my wife.

Yes! Already, in three quarters of an hour I was madly in love, as an hour before, I should not have dreamed it possible for me to be.

I looked at her lying in my arms.