The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 113: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

CHAPTER IX ANGELA VIVALDI Ir was Saturday night again, and the opera was once more crowded to excess. Bright and joyous was that scene, presenting a wondrous contrast to the care-fraught world without, where the turmoil of jarring interests never ceases and the struggle of conflicting passions is never at rest. And yet, when surveying that immense amphitheatre, thronged with the highest in rank, the proudest in title, the richest in wealth, the most elegant in attire, and the loveliest in personal charms, must not the thinking observer ask - himself whether, if his eye could penetrate beneath that briliant surface and read deep down to the innermost recesses of the heart, he would find bliss, contentment, and joy in every soul? Alas, no! In those festooned alcoves many a smiling lip and radiant brow served but as a mask © to conceal cares the most poignant, anxieties the most intense, jealousies the most fierce, envies the most torturing. Where flowers were upon the brow and diamonds upon the hair, the brain might throb beneath; and within those bosoms that were decked with costliest jewels might the darkest and ignoblest passions be raging. Nor less did looks of seeming kindness that were exchanged and honeyed words of greeting that passed between acquaintances and friends serve to conceal most bitter, rancorous, and implacable hostilities. Amongst those beings who appeared the fairest and gentlest were some whose bosoms burned with the devouring fires of insatiable passion; amongst the most envied and the most worshipped were some whose unrequited love or betrayed affections had already made a ruin and a desert of their hearts. There, too, amidst the galaxy of splendour, rank, and fashion were the vain repinings of beauty on the 96 Gomichbooks (E(0)