Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. “I am giving my understudy a chance. I packed them with the other few things I owned. Here we are. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them.
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