She sung little and mostly kept repeating these two pathetic lines:-


Chi rende alla meschina
La sua felicita?

Ah, who will give the lost one
Her vanished dream of bliss?


At other times, she would sing from the litany. Her companions
joined with her; but still I could discern the voice of Maddalene
from all others, which seemed only to unite for the purpose of
robbing me of it. Sometimes, too, when her companions were
recounting to her their various misfortunes, I could hear her
pitying them; could catch even her very sighs, while she invariably
strove to console them: "Courage, courage, my poor dear," she one
day said, "God is very good, and He will not abandon us."

How could I do otherwise than imagine she was beautiful, more
unfortunate than guilty, naturally virtuous, and capable of
reformation? Who would blame me because I was affected with what
she said, listened to her with respect, and offered up my prayers
for her with more than usual earnestness of heart. Innocence is
sacred, and repentance ought to be equally respected. Did the most
perfect of men, the Divinity on earth, refuse to cast a pitying eye
on weak, sinful women; to respect their fear and confusion, and rank
them among the minds he delighted to consort with and to honour? By
what law, then, do we act, when we treat with so much contempt women
fallen into ignominy?