“If you did not love me, Harold, I should die,” she said. “I could almost wish that the few years you have forgotten would never return again. Have you ever heard the Romaic song which tells of the deathless agony of slighted love? Listen, Harold. Its burden has fascinated me:
Ah, Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.
Without one friend to bear my woe,
I faint, I die, beneath the blow;
That love had arrows well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison’d, too!
Birds yet in freedom shun the net