"Is it not enough that I am here! Your apathy in the midst of these sorrows appalls me.

You say calmly, 'Farewell;' calmly you bid me, 'Welcome!'-- as if in every corner there was not a spy, and as if with every day there was not a massacre!" "Pardon me! But in these walls lies my world.

I can hardly credit all the tales you tell me.

Everything here, save THAT," and she pointed to the infant, "seems already so lifeless, that in the tomb itself one could scarcely less heed the crimes that are done without." Glyndon paused for a few moments, and gazed with strange and mingled feelings upon that face and form, still so young, and yet so invested with that saddest of all repose,--when the heart feels old.
"O Viola," said he, at last, and in a voice of suppressed passion, "was it thus I ever thought to see you,--ever thought to feel for you, when we two first met in the gay haunts of Naples?
Ah, why then did you refuse my love; or why was mine not worthy of you?
Nay, shrink not!--let me touch your hand.

No passion so sweet as that youthful love can return to me again.