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They look awkward, and affected, and silly; I can't endure them. Why will you be so teasing?

And are my expressions of attachment become teasing? A cold indifferent husband, then, would please you better. You reject the simple offering of a devoted heart: as my fondness increases, yours, alas! declines.

Come, come; don't look so grave! I'll stick those foolish roses into my hair, if you will, though I am sure they are only fit for a holiday nosegay.

I gathered them, Love.

And I am sorry, Love, you had not the wit to gather better. They are such as a village school-mistress would strew in her drawer to sweeten her kerchiefs and aprons. They arc too full blown for the flower-pot on her window. But never mind; I'll wear them.

I knew you would, for all your saucy words, mine own little Harry: and I'll tell thee what I'll do in return for all thy sweet condescension.

And what may that be, I wonder?