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Rh to give you wretched paintings in exchange for your beautiful and living creations."

In the summer of 1544 Vittoria returned to live in Rome, in the cloisters of Santa Anna, and she remained there until her death. Michael Angelo used to go to see her. She thought affectionately of him, tried to put a little pleasure and comfort into his life, and, secretly, to make him a few little presents. But the suspicious old man, "who would accept presents from no one," even from those whom he loved the most, refused to give her this pleasure.

She died. He saw her die, and he uttered these touching words, which show with what a chaste reserve their great love had been surrounded:

"Nothing distresses me more than to think that I have seen her dead, and that I have not kissed her forehead and her face as I have kissed her hand."

"This death," says Condivi, "made him for a long time quite stupid: he seemed to have lost his intelligence."

"She wished me the greatest good," said Michael Angelo sadly, later on, "and I the same (Mi noleva grandissimo bene, e io non meno di lei). Death has robbed me of a great friend."

He wrote two sonnets on this death. One, imbued