It is difficult; it is very difficult. A woman, as I said, would
understand it at once; but men--are so different. You have told me,
Signor Marchese, that you love me; that you never loved before; that
I am the first woman who has ever moved your heart. Eh, bene, Signor
Marchese! If I, having heard those protestations, were to confess
that--that it was with me even as with you,"--she dropped her eyes
and sighed as she made the confession;--"that I, too--that you have
taught me now for the first time what it is to love,--though I might
speak it less eloquently than you have done, the words would be
equally true,--equally true, Signor," she repeated, slowly nodding
her head. "And when I have confessed that it is so," she continued,
speaking more rapidly, "can you wonder--can you not understand that
it is impossible to me--that it would be a horror unspeakable to--to
renew with the object of a true love--the first--the first, as God
sees my heart--the degradation that has left nothing but bitterness
and humiliation behind it? Shall the name of Lamberto di Castelmare
be written in my memory in the hateful list of those who have been
to me the occasion of remorse, of self-condemnation, of bitterness
immeasurable? Never, never, never! Come what may there shall be one
pure place in my heart; one unsoiled spot in my life; one ever-dear
remembrance unlinked with sorrow and with shame; one memory which,
however sad, shall not be humiliating.
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