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 And, after a made smile of acquiescence, Took up again the theme of his aversion, Which now had flown along with him alone For twenty years, like Io's evil insect, To sting him when it would. The decencies Forbade that I should look at him for ever, Yet many a time I found myself ashamed Of a long staring at him, and as often Essayed another focus, preferably That least engaging of exotic steel, Which in the distance, on the dictionary, Shone, I conceived, with something of the fire That lived in Avon's eye. At other times There might be cold things creeping in my hair, At which my scalp would shrink,—at which, again, I would arouse myself with a vain scorn,