She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. " "It shall be, Sir," replied Ireton, bowing. ” “Happy Birthday to you. Everyone has gone away again, so that I can do so all alone. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. “Oh, but life is difficult!” she groaned. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery.
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