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Wollstonecraft, Mary, 1759-1797

"Mary A Fiction"

The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre;
the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked;
her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one
object.
Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the
Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's
scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe,
were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms
shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world."
The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy;
but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated.
Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the
remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come
after that?


CHAP. XXVIII.

Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother
called on her.
"My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not
only this day, but a week or two with me.


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