I Love Your Daughter Fondly,

The Great Grindstone, Earth, Had Turned When Mr. Lorry Looked Out Again, And The Sun Was Red On The Courtyard. But, The Lesser Grindstone Stood Alone There In The Calm Morning Air, With Red Upon It That The Sun Had Never Give, And Would Never Take Away.

It Was One Of Those Hot, Silent Nights, When People Sit At Windows Listening For The Thunder Which They Know Will Shortly Break; When They Recall Dismal Tales Of Hurricanes And Earthquakes; And Of Lonely Travellers On Open Plains, And Lonely Ships At Sea, Struck By Lightning.

Renunciation Remains Sorrow, Though A Sorrow Borne Willingly.

My Dear Young Lady, Crime, Like Death, Is Not Confined To The Old And Withered Alone. The Youngest And Fairest Are Too Often Its Chosen Victims.

The Shadows Of Our Own Desires Stand Between Us And Our Better Angels, And Thus Their Brightness Is Eclipsed.