From her dark towers she lightly threw To him three roses red; He spake no word, but pale he grew, And bowed his troubled head. It was a warm, humid evening of early September, and every window and skylight of Repellier's huge studio was open its widest. Between the muffled rhythm and beat of an orchestra the sound of laughter and merriment, and the murmur of many voices, floated out on the hot night air.…
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