Her moods were many and always striking. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. A carpenter's daughter is no fit match for a peer of France. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. This she would not endure.
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