"These things always travel in circles. She lay, as she had lain before, shackled by dreams to a cruel and everlasting monument of sleep. Beneath translucent lids walked ghostly figures: princes and paupers, knights and knaves, witches and millers and magicians. The roses of her bower were also kept from death, but through ages of lingering unlife their scent had become sickly, reminiscent of her own unwholesome rest. The windowpane was crusted with frost."

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