human
If I am not mistaken, she is Miss Carew, a young Boston lady, whom I met there only last night. How she came here, what is the mystery of this, I can not understand.
gpt
The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark, flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy face till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
human
Poor thing! she must have been a beauty, the railway employé said, as he contemplated Kathleen's cold and beautiful face.
gpt
Come, let us carry her into the house and get a doctor. Maybe she ain't really dead, only swooned,