What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Perhaps he truly meant it – perhaps there was a force within him that could withstand the hardships of existing past a mortal lifetime. He seemed to possess a penetration and cunning beyond his years—to hide a man's judgment under a boy's mask. The less she lived, in fact, the better. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite. 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. One don't often get sich a vindfal as the Markis——" "Or such a customer as Mr. Predictably, Charvill turned on him.
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