And I, what is my crime I cannot tell, unless it be a crime to have loved too well. How can I tell the many thousand ways by which the heart keeps the secrets it betrays?
Love can hope where reason would despair. Duty is a slave that keeps the keys. The white moth to the closing vine, the bee to the open clover. For love deceives the best of woman kind.
Of God's and Satan's blood you are born. Pain ends where love begins.
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