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Rh He swoons!

Cyrano!

What is this?

Nay, on my word

'Tis nothing! Let me be!

But…

That old wound Of Arras, sometimes,—as you know…

Dear friend!

'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon;

See! it has passed!

Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,—

Never healed up—not healed yet, my old wound!