At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge. 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 clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone.
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