Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. She still could not muster the strength to leave. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me.
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