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. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. It's precisely what such a simpleton would do. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. I don’t care.
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