What mean you, sir?
Veniero.
A change of late, hath passed upon this brow
So open once and trusting. Thy light step
Hath lost its buoyancy; that drooping eye
Too often reads the ground—and meets not mine
With glance so bright and bold, as when it had
No consciousness of aught to hide. Dost cherish
A grief that I know not?
Teresa.