Nicholas is dead. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. ’ ‘Exactement. People running, screaming, hiding. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you what hardships I have undergone—to what frightful extremities I have been reduced—and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty subsistence for this child's sake, —if you could feel what it is to stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me, and shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the wretched,—if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love, and how much more dear to me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for him,—if you were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than reproach me, because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I feel would break my heart. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried.
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