Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. The air, perfumed with the delicious fragrance of the new-mown grass, was vocal with the melodies of the birds; the thick foliage of the trees was glistening in the sunshine; all nature seemed happy and rejoicing; but, above all, the serene Sabbath stillness reigning around communicated a calm to her wounded spirit. You will only make me hurt you the more.
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