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Rh bring to Francesca's pillow; she questioned, she blamed herself—what could she have done that the whole company appeared so to rejoice in her pain? Why should they dislike her—what offence could she have given? With what increased gratitude did she turn to the Queen's kindness! It would have yielded her small pleasure, could she have known that, beyond the momentary impulse, that kindness was, of all, the most deceitful.

No marvel that we regret our youth. Let its bloom, let its health, let its pleasures depart, could they but leave behind the singleness and the innocence of the happy and the trusting heart. The lessons of experience may open the eyes; but, as in the northern superstition, they only open to see dust and clay, where they once beheld the beauty of palaces.