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 any self-denial, that had ever moved him since the hour that Joconda had held up her stoup of wine to his mouth in the cathedral square of Grosseto.

He longed to fall down before her; to cry aloud to her; to say to her—'Pity me, if you cannot love me; your mother loved me once!'

His heart, so long denied all natural affections, so long without any kind of tenderness given or received, so long barren as the rock in the midst of the salt water on which he had been caged, grew thirsty with longing to slake itself at these simple springs of natural love at which the poorest can drink and for awhile feel rich.

He had been a fierce and cruel creature, often following his instincts as the tiger and the vulture followed theirs; but he had not been without fine impulses here and there, and he had been capable of love.

All his soul looked on her now out of his deep wild eyes. The words rushed to his lips that would tell her the truth; words which never again could be effaced. Almost he had cast himself down before her and cried to her—'I stole your gold, I