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 Hazy despair had wrapt him like a fog, Dull acquiescence calm’d all impulses. “Damsel!” he said, “half in my heart it were To wish your face as dolorous, if thro’ that Such wine of laughter might but touch my lips. Nay, prithee!” (for her face grew grave), “laugh on, And, in a little, tell me of thy name.”

“Riance!” quoth she: “Dark Riance is my name; I have it of my laughter. But, fair Sir, What do you on my marches? Lack you crabs Or spotted jellies, limpets, cloudy shrimps— Or had you but a mind to taste my fog? Good wholesome cheer for heart and stomach both, And yet meseems you do not thrive withal?” With that she smiled, a very vexing smile.

“Nay, child,” he said; “Reserve for fishermen