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Has thought of that new bride—I hate that bride— And spoken to me seldom and with looks Not like his wonted looks, she has been kinder; Has kiss'd me oftener, and has held me closer To her soft bosom. O she loves me dearly! And dearly I love her!—Where is she now, That thou should'st say, "I would that she were here!"

Dear boy! I may not tell thee.

May not tell me! Then she is in some sad and hateful place, And I will go to her.

Ah no! thou canst not.

I will; what shall withhold me, Sabawatté?

Strong bolts and bars, dear child!

Is she in prison?

She is.