The roses on your cheeks were not one whit the paler.

No, no, you have not longed for me; your heart has not felt this painful, blissful anguish.

You are first and above all things the proud, cold queen, and next, next the loving woman." "How unjust and hard you are, my Henry!" whispered she softly.

"I have indeed suffered; and perhaps my pains have been more cruel and bitter than yours, for I--I had to let them consume me within.

You could pour them forth, you could stretch out your arms after me, you could utter lamentations and sighs.