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we must again return to Spain, where a new subject of anxiety diverted Beatrice's attention—her mother's illness. She had soon not a moment she could call her own. Poor Donna Margaretta's situation was the more pitiable, as she both suffered and complained like a child. The remedies her case required it was next to impossible to induce her to take. One day she would be in the strong and angry excitement of fever, the next in the fretful despondency of ague. Now she would, even with tears, ask for the wine and food most hurtful, and then turn with loathing from her needful nourishment. With some difficulty, by appealing to his humanity, an old medical practitioner, from the nearest town, was