Suddenly he stopped short. “And we will sail that splendor wide, From day to day together, From isle to isle of happiness Through year’s of God’s own weather. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. She looked at him curiously. The bus however was full. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. To-morrow he might be sorry; but to-day, this hour! She rose, not quickly, but with a dignity which only accentuated her beauty.
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