A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Wesitand lookout attheboysintheir happy playwe kneel still with one little cheek wistfully pressed against the paneand we go and stand before the glass.We see the complexion we were not to spoil, and the white frock Then the curse begins to act upon us. It finishes its work when we are grown women, who no more look out wistfullyat a more healthy life; we are contented.We fit our sphere as a Chinese woman's foot fits her shoe, exactly, as though God made bothand yet he knows nothing of either.
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