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Updated: May 22, 2025
He had scored heavily this time. Far too heavily. There was a flame in Lucia's face which did not come from the glow of the fire, a flame that ran over her neck and forehead to the fine tips of her ears. For she thought, supposing all the time he had been telling her the simple truth? Why should she have raised that question?
"It has all been thought out," I said dully, "and settled before. I can't re-argue it all now. I decided it finally before I left England, and I am in the same position now as I was then." A scarlet colour stole into the rose glow on Lucia's face. "You don't care for me, Victor!" she said passionately. "You can't!
But when she touched the coat, the coat that had Lucia's letter in the breast-pocket, Rickman turned in his bed and made agonizing signs, struggling with the voice that perished in his burning throat. "Wot's the good," said she, "of a suit when yer can't wear it? As I telled you wot you wa No, the's no sorter use your making fyces at me.
Lucia's name had never passed his lips, and she had no means of guessing how daily and hourly thoughts of one fair young Canadian girl were inseparably joined to the very roots of every good quality he possessed. This ignorance did not at all arise from want of interest.
Then Lucia came straight toward Rebecca, and, making an ugly face at her, exclaimed: "Who is afraid of you, anyway, Rebecca Flora Weston?" Rebby was too astonished at Lucia's unexpected appearance to make any response to this rude salutation; and, with another scornful glance, Lucia went on her way to where Mrs. Lyon and Mrs.
"What have you been doing? Muddling your poor little brains with all manner of elegant rubbish?" "No, I've been enjoying myself immensely. Jean is so interesting, so kind and clever. She didn't bore me with stupid grammar, but just talked to me in such pretty French that I got on capitally, and like it as I never expected to, after Lucia's dull way of teaching it." "What did you talk about?"
The great thing was that he had done it, and that the Harden library was his, was Lucia's. It only remained to tell her, and to hand it over to her. He had long ago provided for this difficult affair. He wrote, as he had planned to write, with a judicious hardness, brevity and restraint.
There had been a little flutter of expectation in Lucia's mind for the last half-hour, in which she wondered her mother did not express more sympathy; and when, at last, the door opened, she was seized with a sudden tremor, and for an instant felt herself deaf and blind.
The town hall, at the end of the market-place, was still standing, and to-day it was draped in Italian flags. It looked older and more dignified than ever, amid the ruins, and the flag floated bravely in the crisp fall breeze. Lucia and Lathrop stopped to look at it. Lucia's eyes sparkled and she threw an impulsive kiss towards it. Lathrop saluted respectfully.
In Lucia's presence he became almost as unworldly as herself; he gave himself up half willingly, half unconsciously to the enjoyment of feelings which no woman less thoroughly simple and natural could have awakened; but, it is true that when he left her he left also this strange region of sensations he returned precisely to his former self.
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