Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. But Jack was too well versed in the geography of the place to attempt either of them. 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. In no way could he be said to contribute to the gaiety of the little party. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself.
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