When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
But at the very moment she was thinking these thoughts, adventure, as she afterwards told my Mother, was stalking her.
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But at the very moment she was thinking these thoughts, adventure, as she afterwards told my Mother, was stalking her.
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