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"It was only a dream for me, after all," Guido said, after a little while. "You have the reality. She used to talk of three great questions, and I remember them now as if I heard her asking them: 'What can I know? What is it my duty to do? What may I hope? Those were the three." "And the answers?" "Nothing, nothing, nothing. Those are my answers. Unless " He stopped. "Unless what?"
One is charmed with the opulence which feeds so many pensioners. But Chaucer is a huge borrower. Chaucer, it seems, drew continually, through Lydgate and Caxton, from Guido di Colonna, whose Latin romance of the Trojan war was in turn a compilation from Bares Phrygius, Ovid and Statius.
With this first somewhat broad conception of the dignity of womanhood there was a new incentive to manly endeavor; and there came into the world, in the power and might of the great Florentine poet, a majesty of character which fair Provence could never have produced. Immediately before Dante's time we see glimmerings of this new sentiment in the work of Guido Cavalcanti and of Cino da Pistoja.
"In simpler times," observed Lamberti, who liked to recall the middle ages, "we should have poisoned the old woman." Guido did not smile. "Without meaning to do her an injustice," he answered, "I think it much more probable that she would have poisoned me." "With the help of Monsieur Leroy, she might have succeeded."
"Nowhere else can these men, the Carracci, be studied as here in Bologna, where they founded their art-school just at the close of the sixteenth century. There are also some very good examples of the work of Domenichino, Guido Reni, Albani, and other famous pupils of the Carracci.
He did not know how they had got them now, but he was sure that some fraud had been committed. It was broad daylight still, and he examined the signature carefully while the lawyer held the half sheet of note paper before his eyes. The paper was certainly the Princess's, and the writing was Guido's beyond doubt. The Princess always used violet ink, and Guido had written with it.
She looked at him curiously, thinking, perhaps, that he meant himself. Then she gravely bent her head. "I thank you very much," she said. The small iron door closed with a rusty clang, and the friends began to descend the steep way that leads down from the Porta San Pancrazio to the Via Garibaldi. "Why did you say that to the nun?" asked Guido.
There were great rings round his eyes, his face was haggard and drawn, and his cheek-bones were flushed with the fever. He looked much more ill than he really was, so far as his body was concerned. "Well, come in," he said, after a moment's hesitation. As soon as Lamberti had entered Guido locked the door again to keep his servant out.
"The truth is," said Guido, "that it is easier to have one's leg cut off than to make a fortune." He was amused at his thought, but Cecilia was wondering what she would be willing to suffer, and able to bear, if any suffering could buy her freedom. At the same time, she knew that she would do a great deal to help him if he were in need or distress.
Yet, if any one, skilled in reading the torn manuscripts of the human soul, cares for more intimate knowledge of me, he may have it by knowing with what persons in past history I have most sympathy. I will name three. In all that is strongest and deepest in me, that fits me for my work, and gives light or shadow to my being, I have sympathy with Guido Guinicelli.
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