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But that averted face, that downcast eye,— There is abhorrence in it.

O no! I fear'd to look; 't is not abhorrence. (Raises her eyes to him, and shrinks back.)

What moves thee thus?

Alas! thou 'rt greatly alter'd: So pale thy cheek, thine eyes so quench'd and sunk! Hath one short night so changed thee?

A night spent in the tossings of despair, When the fierce turmoil of contending passions To deepest self-abasement and contrition, Subside;—a night in which I have consented To tear my bosom up—to rend in twain Its dearest, only ties; ay, such a night Works on the mortal frame the scathe of years.

Alas! thy frame will feel, I fear, too soon The scathe of years. Sorrow and sickness then Will bow thee down, while cold unkindly strangers Neglect thy couch, nor give thee needful succour.