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She gives him a lock of hair, the first she ever gave to man, the lock where he will find pure the kiss her mother gave her when she died; and tells him that "the soul's Rialto hath its merchandise," and she "barters curl for curl upon that mart," and claims a lock from his brow to lay upon her heart, where it shall lack no natural heat until that heart grows cold in death.

The womanly adjuration "tell me you love me!" is one familiar to the ears of all men who have been devotedly loved. Few of them can have failed to discover that a woman is never tired of being told what she knows so well. The Portuguese lady, with the same earnest yearning to hear what she already believes, exclaims:

And adds in vindication of her longing to hear that sweet assurance,