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 "I am glad you speak of him as a youth," Ferrari replied.

"Why?"

"Because you will regard his passion as that of a boy, and not let it move your woman's nature that you speak of."

"But, Andrea, it has, it has! I am miserable as a consequence, miserable. I have the feeling of a dream that blots out all but my father's house in the sweet time you know of."

"Before I came and pulled it all down about you."

"No, no, Andrea Ferrari."

"Yes, yes, I say, it was I. But for me you would have been happy; it was I who gave the excuse for butchery, and worse and worse," he repeated significantly.

"No, no; some other excuse would have been found."

"But why this confession, Anna Klosstock, Countess St raven sky—why?"

"Not to alter our plans, Andrea, but to relieve my mind."

"If I had not been old enough to be your father," said Ferrari, sitting by her side and taking her hand, " old enough, but not good enough; if I had been young and had been made for what women call love, it would have been well Anna, if we could have joined what is called hands and hearts."

"And would you after what you say is worse than butchery? And would you with the brand of the knout upon her?"

"Ah, my child," Ferrari replied as if they were discussing a more or less ordinary matter, "that brand is an honor. But you love this English painter, eh? Is it so after all your vows, after your pledges, and with the work you have to do that is so far away from such ideas, and the hottest