Yes, but there are sorrows,
Edoardo, which sadly wear away our life; but these sorrows are a
need, a duty, and to forget them is a crime. My poor sister, the only
friend I have ever had, that poor saint, the victim of love, dead
through the treachery of a man hardly two years since: on memory of
her I have lived for eighteen months; but I even forget her when I
see you, when I speak to you. Perhaps I do not bestow on my mother as
much attention as her unhappy state requires. Alas! there is no
reproach more bitter than this: "You are a bad daughter!" And this my
conscience reproaches me with being a thousand times. Thus, Edoardo,
I am wanting in my duties. I am a weak creature: a powerful, and too
sweet sentiment threatens to take entire possession of me, to the
detriment of the other sentiments that nature has implanted in our
heart. Go, then, Edoardo; I have need of calm--I have need of not
seeing you. Suffer me to fulfil my duties, that I may be more worthy
of you. When you are far away, I shall have full faith in you.
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