Chapter 17
If by Red Cliff Hall. Red for Libby Wokstad-Oak by Jule Nidemeier. If all the words you spoke, dear, were every one untrue, there can be nothing good, dear, in earth or sun or dew, and all the worlds lie, dear, because of you.
If all the smiles you gave, dear, were only to be guile, why then there's nothing sweet, dear, in any human smile, and what we deem most fair, dear, is only bile. If every kiss that lingered upon the lips you pressed was but an empty token more fickle than the rest,
I wish that I had died, dear, for death were best.
