“But I suppose,” said I, “everything that’s true means something.”
“Very likely,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “But this story isn’t true. I made it up.”
Because it isn’t true, or for some other reason, the story still runs in my head. How like my friend Annabel Lee it is!
[XVI
A MEASURE OF SORROW]
“BUT though you are equally as beautiful as Poe’s Annabel Lee,” I said to my friend Annabel Lee—“and half the time I think you are the same one—still when I read over the poem in my mind I find differences.”
“You find differences,” said my friend Annabel Lee.
I repeated:
“‘It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee.
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.’