The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. So strongly was he impressed with this idea, that grasping the iron bar with both hands, he dashed it furiously against the door, making the passage echo with the blows. Her hair had become so matted that Sebastian had sheared it off, which made her the very mirage of a nubile young boy. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. You are all that I am or hope to be—the celestial atom God put into me at the beginning.
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