"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. 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. "Is she returned!" "Y—e—s, Sir Rowland," stammered Charcam.
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