He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. What of madame, his wife?’ ‘You know more of her than me,’ the girl said with a look of scorn. " "What do you mean, Sir?" asked Trenchard. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724.
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