The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. When Claude Du Val was in Newgate thrown, He carved his name on the dungeon stone; Quoth a dubsman, who gazed on the shattered wall, "You have carved your epitaph, Claude Du Val, With your chisel so fine, tra la!" "This S wants a little deepening," mused the apprentice, retouching the letter in question; "ay, that's better.
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