A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends.
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