intonation. "I suppose that life is different in Sicily."

"Life is life, everywhere," returned the Sicilian. "If I love a woman,
it is not for the pleasure of loving her, nor for the glory of having it
written on my tombstone that I have died for her. It is better that
some one else should die and that I should have what I want. How does
that seem to you? Is it not logic? It is true that I have never loved
any woman in that way. But then, I am young, though I am older than you
are."

"What can I do?" The pale young man smiled sadly and shook his head.
"You do not understand our society. I cannot even see her except at a
distance, unless they choose to permit it. I cannot write love letters
to her, can I? In our world one cannot do such things, and it would be
of no use if I could--"

"I would," said Taquisara. "I would write. I would see her--I would
empty hell and drag Satan out by the hair to help me, if the saints
would not. But you! You sit still and die of love. And when you are
dead, what will you have? A fine tomb out in the country, and lights,
and crowns, and some masses--but you will not get the woman you love. It
is not love that consumes you. It is imagination. You imagine that you
are going to die, and unless you recover from this, you probably will.
With your temperament, the best thing you can do is to come with me to
Sicily and forget all about Donna Veronica Serra. No woman would ever
look at a man who loves as you do. She might pity you enough to marry
you, if no one else presented himself just then; but when she was tired
of pitying you she would love some one else. It is not life to be
always pitying. That is the business of saints and nuns--not of men and
women."