If one looks into the gardens this time of day, one may see a woman there. She's only just a woman, come twenty years, and has a loveliness that is granted her by her youth: when she becomes older, she will no longer be so fair to look at. Someday she may not be fair at all
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"My lady."
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The voice is too familiar, too dear, and perhaps she had gone to the gardens for a tryst to begin with--she turns in a whirl and holds her arms out, letting her flowers spill. "Lancelot!"
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Hello, madam.
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