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other heart with passion, is it possible that your own remains insensible and cold? It cannot be! That melting eye, that blushing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous melancholy which at times overspreads your features—all these marks belie your words: you love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from me."
"Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you speak? I neither know its nature, nor, if I felt it, why I should conceal the sentiment."
"Have you seen no man, Antonia, whom, though never seen before, you seemed long to have sought? whose form, though a stranger's, was familiar to your eyes? the found of whose voice soothed you, pleased you, penetrated to your very soul? in whose presence you rejoiced, for whose absence you lamented? with whom your heart seemed to expand, and in whose bosom, with confidence unbounded, you reposed the cares of your own? Have you not felt all this, Antonia?"
"Certainly
