'My own Edoardo,' said the bride again; 'another kindness; a new
expression of your love. Oh, how dear this wreath will be to me!' and
she retired, taking it with her.
Sophia looked at the door through which the lady had disappeared, and
bursting into tears, exclaimed: 'Oh my poor wreath!'
'Sophia, Sophia, you are an angel,' said Edoardo. 'Once more I owe
you my life.'
'Since she is yours,' replied Sophia mournfully, and sitting down
faint and exhausted on her trunk--'since she is yours, ought I to
bring death to her mind, the death that I feel already in my poor
heart? No one knows, no one can know what is suffering, but those who
suffer; oh, no woman ever endured what I endure at this moment!
Go--go, Edoardo; prepare yourself for the ceremony: they are waiting
for you. I have no more reproaches to make you--no more right to make
them. All was in that wreath, and in renouncing that, I have
renounced this. Go--I have need of not seeing you. I promise you that
when you return I will be no longer here to trouble you with my
presence.
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