In Regards To A Picture of Deborah

Her eye's were of the darkest black and threatened to swallow you in there unassuming, but all encompassing, gaze. Her smile only accentuating the feeling of getting lost in her beautiful face, framed by the most beautiful curls of hair that the Gods have ever blessed a woman with. Her skin felt of the finest Chinese silks and her cheeks had a rosey hue to them that made one think that she smiled often. If only she had not been married, I know that I would have proposed to her the very day I met her. The only thing matching the beauty of her body was the beauty of her soul. No painting, no story, no words could describe the kindness and trust and love that she exuded. That coupled with her outer beauty made her the rarest jewel in all the universe. The man she had married had seen this, and treated her like you would a newborn babe, with tenderness, love, compassion, and for this, she loved him. It was both a sad and joyous day. Sad, because no other man would know her love, joyous because the love the man she was marrying was returned by her with equal love and tenderness and compassion. No, never would a day pass that the two would regret being married, and never would the day pass that the rest of man would be saddened by the loss of two people, joined together forever, as one in love.

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