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. It was locked. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. If you could see how it gives them souls, women who have taken things for granted, who have given themselves up altogether to pettiness and vanity. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass.
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