She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. “Damn! Things are getting plainer. “Lucy, that’s horrible. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. He was an officer, and a person of very great sense, and altogether a desirable parti. Brendon. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. She thought study would be better.
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