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 To her I could say nothing, and to him No more than tallied with a long belief That I should only have it back again For my chagrin to ruminate upon, Ingloriously, for the still time it starved; And that would be for me as long a time As I remembered Avon—who is yet Not quite forgotten. On the other hand, For saying nothing I might have with me always An injured and recriminating ghost Of a dead friend. The more I pondered it The more I knew there was not much to lose, Albeit for one whose delving hitherto Had been a forage of his own affairs, The quest, however golden the reward, Was irksome—and as Avon suddenly And soon was driven to let me see, was needless.