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 write sonnets to the moon—the chaste moon, and your husband. How sentimental!" "And you,"—"No, my dear, I thank heaven I never could make a rhyme in my life.—Farewell—adieu—remember to-night,—bring Lord Avondale—that divine Henry: though beware too; for many a lady has to mourn the loss of her husband, as soon as she has introduced him into the society of fascinating friends." "He is out of town." "Then so much the better. After all, a wife is only pleasant when her husband is out of the way. She must either be in love, or out of love with him. If the latter, they wrangle; and if the former, it is ten times worse. Lovers are at all times insufferable; but when the holy laws of matrimony give them a lawful right to be so amazingly fond and affectionate, it makes one sick." "Which are you, in love or out of love with Mr. Selwyn?"—"Neither, my child, neither. He never molests me, never