She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. “Katy Pfister. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. “Surely Lady Ennison would object, even if it were possible. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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