XVII

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XVII

“And is it,” meditates Eugene.

“And is it she? It must be⁠—no⁠—

How! from the waste of steppes unseen,”⁠—

And the eternal lorgnette through

Frequent and rapid doth his glance

Seek the forgotten countenance

Familiar to him long ago.

“Inform me, prince, pray dost thou know

The lady in the crimson cap

Who with the Spanish envoy speaks?”⁠—

The prince’s eye Onegin seeks:

“Ah! long the world hath missed thy shape!

But stop! I will present thee, if

You choose.”⁠—“But who is she?”⁠—“My wife.”