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I had said, "some day you will discover that you have done wrong in again
casting Raymond on the thorns of life. When disappointment has sullied his
beauty, when a soldier's hardships have bent his manly form, and loneliness
made even triumph bitter to him, then you will repent; and regret for the
irreparable change
"will move
In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love."[1]
The stinging "remorse of love" now pierced her heart. She accused herself
of his journey to Greece--his dangers--his imprisonment. She pictured
to herself the anguish of his solitude; she remembered with what eager
delight he had in former days made her the partner of his joyful hopes--
with what grateful affection he received her sympathy in his cares. She
called to mind how often he had declared that solitude was to him the
greatest of all evils, and how death itself was to him more full of fear
and pain when he pictured to himself a lonely grave. "My best girl," he had
said, "relieves me from these phantasies. United to her, cherished in her
dear heart, never again shall I know the misery of finding myself alone.
Even if I die before you, my Perdita, treasure up my ashes till yours may
mingle with mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is not a
materialist, yet, methinks, even in that dark cell, I may feel that my
inanimate dust mingles with yours, and thus have a companion in decay." In
her resentful mood, these expressions had been remembered with acrimony and
disdain; they visited her in her softened hour, taking sleep from her eyes,
all hope of rest from her uneasy mind.
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