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Rh And, dead, you love him still?

At times,—meseems He is but partly dead,—our hearts still speak,

As if his love, still living, wrapped me round!

Cyrano comes to see you?

Often, ay. Dear, kind old friend! We call him my 'Gazette.' He never fails to come: beneath this tree They place his chair, if it be fine:—I wait, I broider;—the clock strikes;—at the last stroke I hear,—for now I never turn to look— Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps; He seats himself:—with gentle raillery He mocks my tapestry that's never done; He tells me all the gossip of the week…

Why, here's Le Bret!

How goes it with our friend?

Ill!—very ill.

How?

He exaggerates!