It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. “There is someone in my rooms,” Anna said. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth.
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