“Angelica, my dear sister... I didn't shed tears before that piano where your body rested—for I soon realized that you were no longer there,” Argalia says, his eyes belying an ineffable sorrow.

His body trembles and his waning soliloquy resumes; his tone fluctuates between acquiescence and lamentation in equal measure.

“That's right; you're the gentle breeze that brushes past my face, and the clouds that fly in the sky, which give me heed of your presence from overhead or underfoot.”