She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. Kind of knows it, too. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, pervert?” “Yes sir. I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris. The Palazzo was unlike anything she had ever known. ” She said wistfully.
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