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Then she presses her hand to her forehead, on which the perspiration had risen in beads. "Alas! I did not know it!" Enrica is now sobbing bitterly. "Why oh! why, did you not trust me?" In a strange, weary-sounding voice the marchesa continues: "Let us not speak of it. Enrica" she turns her gray eyes full upon her, as she stands motionless in front of the pillared casement "Enrica, you must choose.
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