Π§ΠΈΡΠ°ΡΡ ΠΎΠ½Π»Π°ΠΉΠ½ Β«ΠΠ½Π³Π»ΠΈΠΉΡΠΊΠΈΠΉ ΡΠ·ΡΠΊ Ρ ΠΠ½ΡΠΎΠ½ΠΈ Π₯ΠΎΡΠΏΠΎΠΌ. Π£Π·Π½ΠΈΠΊ ΠΠ΅Π½Π΄Ρ / Anthony Hope. The Prisoner Of ZendaΒ». Π‘ΡΡΠ°Π½ΠΈΡΠ° 96
ΠΠ²ΡΠΎΡ ΠΠ½ΡΠΎΠ½ΠΈ Π₯ΠΎΡΠΏ
There are moments when I dare not think of it, but there are others when I rise in spirit to where she ever dwells; then I can thank God that I love the noblest lady in the world, the most gracious and beautiful, and that there was nothing in my love that made her fall short in her high duty.
Shall I see her face again β the pale face and the glorious hair? Of that I know nothing; Fate has no hint, my heart no presentiment. I do not know. In this world, perhaps β nay, it is likely β never. And can it be that somewhere, in a manner whereof our flesh-bound minds have no apprehension, she and I will be together again, with nothing to come between us, nothing to forbid our love? That I know not, nor wiser heads than mine. But if it be never β if I can never hold sweet converse again with her, or look upon her face, or know from her her love; why, then, this side the grave, I will live as becomes the man whom she loves; and, for the other side, I must pray a dreamless sleep.