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Rh me the fallacy of all. Shew me a heart without its hidden wound."

Francesca did not interrupt the mournful silence that ensued—all that was sorrowful in memory rose to the surface. The image of Evelyn brought before her the little reliance that could be placed in love. The faithlessness of early friendship, how was it shown in the careless neglect of the Comtesse de Soissons!—and the mockery of worldly prosperity rose like a phantom from the yet-scarce-cold grave of Madame de Mercœur.

"Is it my fault," continued Guido, "that I can no longer deceive myself? I hold nothing in life worth desiring, because I feel that nothing in life can give happiness. Wealth brings indolence and satiety—power its own terrible responsibility, but never the enjoyment we expected; the struggle was feverish, but thereunto the possession answers not. And love!—what is it but the most subtle mockery!—with the light and vain, perishing of its own inconstancy; or, with the fond and true, betrayed by the deceit which has the gloom, but not the rest of death. As to what is called a life of pleasure and amusement, its own inanity is its own rebuke. I loathe its vapid weariness—its yawns are sweeter than its smiles. Once I had higher dreams and nobler aspirations. I looked