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Rh everything to fear, and nothing to expect. What creation of the poet ever exceeded this terrible reality of love sepulchred in this living tomb? I often marvel to myself what were her feelings when a shadow fell across the path, and she looked upon one of those shrouded and flitting shapes, and dared not ask if the cowl hid the face which she most desired to see!—and yet this went on for years!"

"Enough, my sister!" exclaimed Guido; "I do not like to think of it. What is this story but another instance of the cruel fate whose iron rule is over our world. The love wasted in this pitiless cloister would have made the happiness of a life."