We have seen pitted cheeks, which we would not exchange for dimples and a satin skin. 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. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. ‘Did you sigh and flutter your eyelashes?’ ‘Certainly I did.
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