Laura Kinsale

she would die of unrequited

equited love before the night was gone

You are avoiding me, little cat

you can't wish to dally with such a rustic as I

he looked down into her eyes

dashed her prudence

Haps not so meek as some

You, my love, are an extraordinary woman

you wither into an old crone

reading books and stirring over a pot of hopeless spells?