She sprang into my arms.
Bending back her head, and shaking her long locks from her pretty brow, our lips—
Hillo! reader, you are not getting sentimental, are you? Don’t now; for I’ve no sympathy with you—no more sentiment than a horse.
But stop; here’s a bit, and written when things were tremendous. Ecce signum!
O Fanny, sweet Fanny,
I cannot tell why,
But I live in the glance
Of thy witching blue eye—
In the light of the spirit
And loveliness there: