The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. ’ That wonderful poster—is of you. She let go of him and stood up, straightening herself. But from the rest—you saved me. “I do not understand. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus.
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