Chapter XLVIII.
"Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd should fly from thee, thy home is still here.
* * *
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in thy heart;
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!"
Though the herd should fly from thee, thy home is still here.
* * *
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in thy heart;
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!"
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